Hollow Crown (35 page)

‘No, my lord,’ the constable said, showing he knew perfectly well to whom the car belonged, ‘there’s no parkin’ under any circumstances in front of the
station.’

At that moment, Lampfrey drew up in a police car and wound down his window. ‘What’s the problem, constable? Oh, Lord Edward, I didn’t see it was you. Not been breaking the
speed limit, have we?’ he said, grinning.

‘No, damn it, I’ve just been handing over an important piece of evidence to Inspector Pride and I come out to find I’m being booked for parking in the wrong place. I sometimes
wonder if England’s turning into a police state.’

‘That’s all right, constable,’ the Inspector said, indicating with his thumb that the latter’s presence was no longer required. ‘The constable was quite in
order,’ he said, to mollify the red-faced officer who appeared ready to argue the toss with his superior, ‘but on this occasion we’ll let you off with a warning.’

When the zealous officer had made himself scarce, Lampfrey said, ‘What’s this important new evidence?’

‘I came to give it to you but you were off sleuthing so I was shown straight in to see Pride. I gave him a diary Miss Browne and I discovered when we dropped in on Haling the other day.
Seems the police search wasn’t as thorough as it ought to have been.’

‘A diary? Mr Scannon’s missing diary!’ Lampfrey exclaimed. ‘What did it have to say about . . . ?’

‘The vital pages had been torn out but, between ourselves – and I didn’t tell Pride this – I showed it to Davidson at Hendon and he made out quite a lot from the
impression on the blank page after the ones that had been ripped out. Here, take this. It’s a copy of what Davidson read. Oh, don’t say where you got it. Davidson examined the diary as
a favour to me – strictly off the record, don’t y’know. Don’t want to get the old lad into any sort of trouble. Telephone me when you’ve digested it and let me know
what you think. By the way, Pride says he’s arrested Miss Conway.’

‘That’s right,’ Lampfrey said, pocketing the paper, ‘she had the opportunity to kill Scannon and the motive. You know she’s inherited everything?’

‘I do, but that doesn’t make her a murderer. A little bit too obvious, I’d say. She’s not a fool and, if she had wanted to kill her half-brother, she’d do it much
more subtly. Well, I’ve got to get going. Mustn’t park in a restricted area.’ As Edward got into the Lagonda, he had a thought. ‘I say, Lampfrey. Miss Conway’s in
“durance vile” at Devizes, I suppose?’ Devizes was the assize town.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad about that. At least she’s out of harm’s way. You see, Miss Conway knows who murdered Leo Scannon and I think the murderer knows she knows – and
that’s dangerous. But she should be safe enough in prison. Cheerio, Inspector.’

Edward put the Lagonda into gear and sped off, covering the police Wolseley with dust.

‘I haven’t got time!’ Verity wailed. ‘I’ve just got to finish this . . . ’ She gestured at a pile of foolscap and then banged the
typewriter, which rang its bell in protest.

She was talking to herself – reluctant to respond to the demands of whoever-it-was banging on the front door. Tactfully, Charlotte and Adrian had gone about their business and left the
house to her. And it was working. She had thrown her articles for the
New Gazette
into a pile in the corner of the room. She would take Lady Benyon’s advice and start from scratch. The
first paragraph had been a problem – she had recast it several times. The first page had taken almost an hour, and the first chapter all morning, but suddenly it was beginning to flow. Her
subconscious had deigned to release her memories of what she had seen in Spain – memories shackled by a growing cynicsm, almost despair. She wanted to write both a call to arms and a serious
evaluation of the situation in all its horrible reality, and there were moments when she thought ‘never the twain would meet’.

But she had cracked it. It was flowing and now there was this knocking on the door. She ignored it for several minutes. Surely, whoever-it-was would take the hint and leave her alone. But no
– this was someone who knew she was there and was determined to talk to her. Wearily, she got up from her chair, her back aching and her wrists stiff, and went downstairs.

‘Verity, Miss Browne, it’s me – Dannie. I must talk to you. It’s important.’

Verity looked at Dannie uncomprehendingly. It had not crossed her mind to wonder who was at the door. Her one aim was to get rid of him, or her, as rapidly as possible. That it might be Dannie .
. . wasn’t she supposed to be in Germany with her lover, the sinister Major Stille?

‘I thought you were in Germany . . . ’ she managed, before Dannie swept past her and up the stairs. She made straight for the window and looked out over the street.

‘Sorry I don’t want to be melodramatic but I think I was being followed.’

‘Followed? I don’t understand. Followed by whom? Anyway, why are you here?’

‘Is this where you work?’ Dannie said, ignoring the question.

There was something almost wistful in the way she spoke, fingering the page in the typewriter. ‘To save time is to lengthen life.’ She read the aphorism affixed to the machine. It
seemed to amuse her.

‘Leave it alone,’ Verity said, suddenly angry. This was the woman who had seduced her . . . her friend and used him as one would a chisel to break open a lock. She hated her; she
hated her politics; she hated her friends and, most of all, she hated her beauty. Because she was very beautiful.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Dannie said humbly. ‘I came to give you these.’ She pulled out a small package from inside her coat and tossed it on the
table.

‘What is it?’

‘Look for yourself. They’re the letters Molly Harkness stole from Mrs Simpson and I took from her room at Haling.’

‘I don’t want them! Give them to Edward or to your “employer”.’

‘My employer? You mean . . . ?’

‘I don’t know who I mean, but presumably you do. Lord Weaver or Major Stille? You tell me.’

‘I thought it might do you some good if you gave them to Joe. He’s not my employer though I was his whore. That was fun. He may look like a stewed prune but he’s by far the
best lover I’ve ever had – better than . . . . He talked himself into my bed. You’ve no idea how dull most men are . . . or perhaps you have. Joe was never dull. Wicked, yes, but
never dull.’

‘But he threw you out in the end. You were two-timing him.’

‘That’s not quite true. I found out . . . from Blanche, as it happens, that he wasn’t faithful to me. That sounds rather absurd, doesn’t it? Expecting a man to be
faithful to his mistress, but he was – so Blanche told me – sleeping with Molly Harkness. Maybe it wasn’t true. Perhaps Blanche was trying to rile me, but I believed her at the
time.’

‘When did she tell you this?’

‘Blanche? Oh, the night Mrs Simpson came to dinner to meet Edward. I decided I was going to get the letters off Molly and take them somewhere where they would cause as much trouble as
possible. I wanted to get back at Joe . . . at the whole pack of them.’

‘You decided to give them to Stille?’

‘Yes, but he told me to return them to Mrs Simpson.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Germany wants the King to stay king. He loves Germany and does whatever the Führer wants him to do.’

‘So Stille told you to hand them back?’

‘Yes, but I was damned if I was going to. I had gone to a lot of trouble – sorry about that, but you know what I mean – to get those letters and it had all been
wasted.’

‘It doesn’t sound as though it was too difficult.’ The sarcasm in Verity’s voice was cutting.

‘Not that part, I agree. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? But rather a prig, don’t you think?’

Verity gritted her teeth. ‘So you thought you’d give the letters to me?’

‘That’s right. I thought the Communist Party might like to use them.’

‘Very kind, but what if I don’t want them . . . if I just burn them?’

Dannie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Do what you like. I don’t care.’

‘And what will you do now?’

‘I’m not sure. Go to Germany. There are people there who’ll look after me. I have a friend in the Luftwaffe. He’s even better looking than Edward.’

Again Verity managed to rein in her anger. ‘And did you kill Mrs Harkness?’ she asked as casually as she could manage.

‘No, she was dead when I went into her room. I saw that at once. That was odd: I thought I was too late. I thought the murderer would have taken the letters but they were there, under her
pillow, so she must have been killed for some other reason.’

Verity was shocked. Dannie had coldly searched under the dead woman’s pillow for the loot she wanted, her only thought that someone else might have been there before her.

‘The only reason you slept with Edward was to get into Mrs Harkness’s room without being seen?’

‘No, that wasn’t it. I didn’t need to make that detour. I thought it would be fun – that’s all.’

‘And was it?’ Verity inquired acidly.

‘Yes and no.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Oh, well, as you can imagine, I had other things on my mind. I had to get into the next room without waking Edward or Molly, of course, though Edward had told me she had taken a sleeping
draught. It was a bit distracting.’

Verity found Dannie’s egotism horrifying. ‘You said you found her dead when you went in?’

‘I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t do it and I didn’t hear anyone but, of course, I might not have done. I . . . I had my hands full. However, I have an idea I know
who did do it.’

‘Who?’

‘You work it out.’

‘Did you have the key to the connecting door?’

‘Yes, I borrowed it from the pantry. I knew where Pickering kept the keys. I returned it before I went back to my room.’

‘And you left through the door into the corridor?’

‘Yes. It would have been too much of a risk coming back through Edward’s room. He might have woken. Anyway, there was no need. I wanted to get back to my room as quickly as I
could.’

‘With the letters.’

‘Yes, with the letters.’

‘Why did you lock the door to Molly’s room?’ it occurred to Verity to ask.

‘I thought it would confuse things. I thought the police would think the murderer climbed up the creeper from the terrace, killed Molly, took the letters and left the same way. I
don’t know what I thought, really. Just that it would confuse things – which it did.’

‘Surely you must have known the police would think you killed Mrs Harkness? After all, they were pretty certain you had taken the letters.’

‘I didn’t care. Life’s so boring. I’d had enough of it here. England’s finished. You know that, don’t you? Germany’s the future. I have to admit I
hadn’t wanted to leave so . . . immediately. It was the fault of that awful policeman – Chief Inspector Pride. I thought he was going to arrest me and I lost my nerve. My friend gave me
a lift in his aeroplane . . . to Germany.’

‘But you came back.’

‘Yes, when I heard they had arrested that housekeeper woman . . . what’s her name?’

‘Ruth Conway.’

‘Yes. Such a dull, plain thing. I had to laugh because, of course, I knew she hadn’t done it. She hadn’t murdered anyone, though in her place I would have killed Leo years
ago.’

‘So who did kill Mrs Harkness, if you didn’t?’

‘I told you, work it out for yourself. It might have been Leo. He wanted those letters badly. Perhaps his nerve failed and he couldn’t bring himelf to look for them properly after he
had drugged her. Or maybe it was that horrible man Hepple-Keen. The one who bullies his wife. I think Molly was his mistress too, but . . . I don’t know why he would have killed
her.’

‘What about Boy Carstairs?’

‘He’s a darling. I let him make love to me because he wanted to so badly. He said he’d take me back to Kenya and we would take the place over . . . but, in the end, I thought
no. He’s always going to lose, isn’t he? But he does look rather wonderful and he rides like a dream.’ She looked wistful again and, for a moment, Verity almost felt sorry for
her. ‘I must go now. I’ve got a plane to catch. Have fun with the letters. Oh, and tell Edward I found him . . . no, on second thoughts, just give him my love. And tell him:
sorry.’

When Dannie had gone, Verity sat at her desk with her face in her hands. A shadow had passed over her and left her numbed. She could not think what to do with Mrs Simpson’s letters. She
did not want to read them. She didn’t even want to see them, so she pushed them under a pile of
New Gazettes
on the floor. She tried to get back to her work but the inspiration had
deserted her. She could not write anything.

She sat there, unmoving, for ten minutes, gazing at the blank sheet of paper in her typewriter, unable to think straight. Her trance was broken by the shrill call of the telephone in the hall.
As if in obedience to a higher power, she trotted meekly down the stairs and lifted the receiver.

‘He’s a sort of policeman,’ his Foreign Office friend, Basil Thoroughgood had said. ‘Hush-hush and all that . . . he’ll brief you on Hepple-Keen.
Actually seemed quite keen to meet you. Goes by the name of . . . ’ There was a crackle on the line and Edward was unable to catch the man’s name. ‘He’ll be at Albany
tomorrow about four. Oh, and don’t be fooled. He may not look anything much, but he’s top of his particular tree in his particularly dangerous part of the jungle.’

It wasn’t
about
four but on the dot of four when the little man knocked on the door of Edward’s set of rooms. And he was a little man. Hardly five feet, very straight of back,
with a small moustache and spectacles. When he took off his hat, Edward saw he was almost bald. There was a deep scar just above his right eye. To the casual observer, he looked inoffensive enough
– unmemorable to the point of invisibility – but, when you looked into his brown eyes, formidable.

After Fenton had relieved his visitor of his hat and coat, he brought in tea and muffins. Edward offered his guest a cigarette but he refused, taking out his own packet. He tapped it
apologetically. ‘Egyptian – a low taste, but there you are.’ He smiled. It was a tight though not unattractive smile but it never reached his eyes.