Sweet Poison (14 page)

‘Oh, will it, Ned? The General dying like that . . . I wonder if anything will be all right again.’

5

Monday Afternoon and Evening

Edward took the eleven thirty-two and got into Waterloo at one o’clock. He took a cab to his rooms in Albany, where he found Fenton polishing the silver.

‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ said Fenton. ‘Mr Bates telephoned to say that you were to be expected so I have taken the liberty of making up a cold collation for your luncheon.’

‘Thank you, Fenton. How was your holiday?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you, my lord. The weather was clement and I was able to do a little painting.’ Edward nodded respectfully. Fenton was a more than competent portraitist and landscape painter.

‘Well, you must let me see what you have done, Fenton. By the way, did Bates say anything to you about the Lagonda?’

‘Yes, my lord. He informed me that the car was successfully towed to Mersham where the smith was able to repair the axle. However, there is other damage to the vehicle so Randolph, the Duke’s chauffeur, is driving it up to London where the garage can work on it. I hope that your leg is better, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Fenton. It is much better. I expect Bates gave you a full account of the unfortunate business at Mersham.’

‘He did, my lord. General Craig’s death is a sad loss to the country, if I may say so, my lord. He was a great soldier and from what I read in the newspapers I would anticipate that the day will come when we will need soldiers like Sir Alistair.’

‘I fear you may be right, Fenton. Bates told you that the General was poisoned?’ Edward said, filling his mouth with cold chicken.

‘Yes, my lord – a terrible thing. Was it some sort of accident?’

‘I really do not know, Fenton. I suppose it must have been. What else could it have been? Fenton, could you get me today’s
Daily Worker
?’

‘The
Daily Worker
, my lord?’

‘Yes, Bates didn’t tell you? A detailed account of the General’s death, which as you can imagine the Duke was hoping to keep as quiet as possible, appeared in that estimable newspaper, and this – I suppose we must call it a scoop – was reprinted in more respectable organs such as
The Times
.’ Fenton registered the heavy irony with which his master spoke and gathered that he was taking the disaster personally.

‘It may not be easy to find the newspaper so late in the day, my lord, but if you wish it I will walk down to Piccadilly. There is a paper seller there which stocks the more esoteric journals.’

‘Yes, please do. I want to get to the bottom of how they got their story. I believe it was through a young woman of the name of Verity Browne who rescued me when my car went off the road and who had, coincidentally, an appointment to be shown round the castle so she could write an article on great houses for
Country Life
.’

‘And you think, my lord, that she was not telling the truth?’

‘I think she was not telling the truth,’ Edward confirmed, wiping his mouth on his napkin and reaching for his glass of champagne. ‘I certainly intend to find out.’

While Fenton went in search of the
Daily Worker
, Edward telephoned a friend of his. The Revd ‘Tommie’ Fox had been up at Trinity with him and they had both been keen oarsmen. Tommie had taken to religion and ended up a curate in Kilburn. He had roped in many of his Cambridge friends to support the boys’ club he ran, and Edward had once or twice been down to box at the club and afterwards talk about life in Kenya, flying and other enthusiasms. The boys were a mixed lot – a few villains but for the most part good lads fighting against a system which deprived them of education and decent jobs and therefore the money to marry and start families. Tommie had been worried by the appeal the Fascists had for many of the boys. The previous September there had been a Fascist march in London and he had been horrified to see several of his lads taking part.

Tommie’s own sympathies were predictably on the left of the political spectrum and Edward thought he might have come across Verity Browne if she regularly wrote for the
Daily Worker
. ‘Yes, of course I know Verity,’ said Tommie when the preliminary ‘how-are-yous’ had been completed and Edward had stated his business. ‘Her father is the lawyer fellow, Donald Browne – Browne with an “e”. Isn’t he a KC? No, now I come to think of it he refused to take silk on principle. He’s certainly a good barrister and highly valued for his commitment to left-wing causes. He represented the trades union – the boiler makers – against the government last year. You must have heard of him.’

Edward had heard of Donald Browne. As Tommie had said, he was an able lawyer, rich enough, he had heard, to bankroll the
Daily Worker
and prepared to take up what he considered worthy causes free of charge. Browne was a common enough name, even with the ‘e’ at the end of it, which Edward had not known about never having seen Verity’s name written down, so there was no reason for him to have made the connection. Verity must have seen the General’s death as a golden opportunity to take a dig at the military and at the upper classes. The girl had jumped to the conclusion that the Duke’s dinner-party was a conspiracy – which it was not – no doubt having been involved in so many herself, he thought bitterly. Edward hit his forehead in frustration.

‘How do you think I could meet her, Tommie?’ he said into the telephone. ‘Casually, I mean.’

‘Why, have you got “a thing” for her, old man?’

‘Not quite, Tommie, but I would like to exchange a few words with her without too much of a fuss if that’s possible. To tell the truth she has been a little bit naughty.’

‘That sounds like Verity,’ said Tommie. ‘Well, look, I have been invited to a party tonight and she is more than likely to be there. I wasn’t actually planning to go. It really isn’t my cup of tea – lots of girls in spectacles discussing the joys of Communism and monkey glands.’

‘Monkey glands?’

‘Yes, they’re the new way of keeping young. Gosh, Ned, you really are behind the times!’

Edward rather resented being patronized by his unworldly friend – or at least the friend he considered to have a utopian view of the world which he was too cynical to share. Tommie gave him the address of the house where the party was being held and assured him he had no need of an invitation – ‘It’s not that sort of affair, Ned. In Chelsea we don’t have all your stuffy rules about how you should behave which you have in Eaton Square. We are quite informal, and that reminds me, don’t come dressed like the frog footman. In Bohemia, we rather espouse the tweed jacket and leather patches, corduroys and knitted ties.’

Edward shuddered.

‘Sorry, say that again?’

The noise was deafening. Edward thought the spotty girl with unwashed hair had asked him if he were sleepy and in fact he did feel rather tired. His knee was still hurting and he was beginning to wish he had not come. The party was in an artist’s studio, a barn of a place off the King’s Road, packed with mostly young people but with a fair sprinkling of middle-aged women wearing too much make-up. He had not met the artist yet – his host – but he was sure, looking at the pictures piled against the walls or hanging from the picture rail, that he would not like him. Most of them seemed to feature stick-like men, a lot of green paint and some orange suns.

‘Not sleepy, CP,’ the spotty girl was saying. ‘Are you a member of the Party or just a fellow traveller?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid,’ he admitted. ‘I am a member of the despised aristocracy but we are not a political party yet.’

The spotty girl looked at him suspiciously, her head at an angle. ‘Are you really an aristocrat? I suppose that’s why you are so well dressed . . . and so good-looking,’ she added after a moment.

Edward was irritated. He had asked Fenton to put out his oldest suit and a particularly noxious tie he had been given by a girl with whom he had once believed himself to be in love, and he was quite convinced he looked, if not Bohemian, at least scruffy. He had to admit however, looking round the room, that compared with most of the other men, he was well dressed. There appeared to be a mistaken impression among the artistic fraternity that long hair, cravats and dandruff were in some way attractive. When he turned back from his scrutiny he found that the spotty girl had vanished into the crowd and had been replaced by a young man in what looked like a silk smoking-jacket, smoking a cigarette through a long ivory-coloured holder.

‘Terrible stuff this, don’t you think?’ he said to Edward, indicating the paintings on the wall.

‘They are rather dire, aren’t they?’ said Edward, feeling he might have more in common with the young man than he had first supposed. ‘I don’t even know the name of the artist, mine host, don’t you know.’

‘Adrian Hassel,’ said the young man. ‘He tries hard but he just can’t seem to do it. But tell me why you are here? I’m sure I have never seen you before and if you will forgive me for saying so you do rather stand out in the crowd.’

‘I’m a friend of Tommie Fox. He invited me but I really came to see if I could meet Verity Browne.’

‘Verity!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Ah, that explains it. She has some very smart friends. You did say you are a friend of hers?’

‘Well, an acquaintance,’ said Edward, not wishing to be caught out in an untruth.

‘An acquaintance, of course. If you were a friend of hers you would not have to come here to meet her. Wait a moment, I am sure I’ve seen her. Ah yes, there she is, talking to the man with the beard. Verity!’ he shouted and his oddly high voice pierced the din effortlessly.

Verity looked up, began to smile and then saw Edward. She blushed deeply and turned as if to look for an escape, but the young man had taken her by the arm and conducted her across the floor. ‘I gather this gentleman – I am afraid we have not been properly introduced so I don’t have his name – is an acquaintance of yours. Perhaps you will be good enough to do the honours.’

‘What . . . oh yes. Adrian, this is Lord Edward Corinth. Lord Edward, this is Adrian Hassel, your host.’

‘Adrian Hassel . . . oh dear,’ said Edward. ‘You must think me very rude and stupid. I apologize.’

‘What is he apologizing for?’ said Verity.

‘He has nothing to apologize for,’ said Hassel gracefully. ‘I said the pictures on the wall were hopelessly bad and he agreed with me, that is all.’

Verity giggled. ‘Adrian, you are an idiot. You deserve whatever you get.’

‘I do, don’t I,’ said the young man. ‘And now I am going to leave the lord and his lady together. That would be the tactful thing to do, would it not?’

Verity punched him in the shoulder, spilling a little of the wine in her glass. ‘Yes, go, Adrian, and good riddance.’

She turned to Edward, forestalling him. ‘I know you must think me the most awful beast. I expect if I were a man you would call me out or something but you must admit it was a perfectly wonderful scoop. All the others were terribly jealous. It’s the first time anything we have written in the
DW
has been used by the proper papers – I mean the capitalist press,’ she corrected herself. ‘I can’t see it did anyone any harm and it did me so much good. It will all come out at the inquest in any case and . . .’ She stopped, seeing his expression. ‘You are really angry, aren’t you? I’m so sorry. Perhaps it was rather a shabby trick.’

‘Look here,’ said Edward suddenly, ‘why not come and have dinner with me? I would like to talk and I can’t hear myself think in this place. What about the Savoy? Or will it be betraying your principles to spend the evening with a representative of the capitalist classes in the heart of Mammon?’

Edward was not sure why he had asked the girl to eat with him – he had certainly not meant to – nor why he was quite so concerned that she might refuse. Verity looked at him for a moment consideringly, then she said, ‘I’m not dressed for the Savoy.’

‘You look very nice to me,’ said Edward. She was wearing a short green dress – maybe doing honour to the artist whose favourite colour this was – a feather boa and two long ropes of what pretended to be pearls.

‘No,’ she said, ‘not the Savoy.’

Taking this to be a ‘yes’ to having dinner with him, he said, ‘All right then, not the Savoy. We’ll go to Gennaro’s.’

‘Wait there a minute,’ Verity commanded. Edward watched her go over to Adrian Hassel and say something in his ear. He looked at Edward curiously but obviously gave his permission for she bounced back and said, ‘I’ll just rescue my hat and coat.’

Thirty minutes later the taxi dropped them in New Compton Street and Edward ushered Verity into the mirrored rooms. The head waiter greeted Edward like an old friend and presented Verity with a rose, its stalk wrapped in silver paper. ‘You are very busy tonight, Freddy,’ said Edward. ‘Can you find us a quiet table?’

‘Certainly, milord,’ said Freddy, bowing. He clicked his fingers and a waiter rushed up to do his bidding. Freddy mumbled something and they were led to an alcove where a table was erected for them, covered with a white tablecloth and laid with ‘silver’ all in a couple of minutes. Two chairs were brought and the waiter politely held one of them while Verity settled herself. With nothing being said, a bottle of Perrier Jouet was opened with a pop, two glasses filled and the bottle put to rest in an ice-bucket.

‘Freddy pretends he is Italian,’ said Edward when they were settled, ‘but I know for a fact he was born in Bermondsey.’

They had hardly spoken in the taxicab and now he felt he was prattling. He had the feeling that Verity was regretting having said she would come with him.

‘Look,’ she said suddenly, ‘let’s get one thing straight. If you think you can impress me with all this . . .’ she waved her arms, ‘. . . with all this flummery, all this “yes-my-lord, no-my-lord” stuff, you have another think coming. I agreed to come with you simply because I feel maybe I do owe you some sort of apology for – you know – doing what I did, but that’s all.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Edward hastily. He was rather annoyed to find himself being lectured when he had intended to do all the lecturing himself. After all, as she had admitted, he was the wounded party, but there was something so honest and gutsy about her bad temper that he could not be angry for long. The waiter arrived to take their order but Edward waved him away. ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Verity, ‘I know what I would like – fritto misto and then fillet of sole.’