Sweet Sorrow (12 page)

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss . . .?’

‘Mary Tallent.’

‘Well, Mary, my name’s Corinth.’

‘I thought you must be Mr Gates,’ she said peevishly. ‘He said he’d be back hours ago. It’s almost one o’clock. I need to get home. My mother will be worried. I was supposed to leave at eleven.’

The girl, pretty enough in a sluttish way, looked almost ugly as her mouth puckered in complaint.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Edward broke in. ‘A terrible thing has happened. The fact is, Mr Gates has been killed.’

‘Killed? How do you mean?’ Mary looked at them, stupefied.

‘It’s rather horrible but I’m afraid he has been murdered,’ Verity said. ‘We have to break it to the children.’

‘Murdered! Oh my God! I didn’t think . . . Murdered? How can he . . .?’

Verity looked at her with sympathy tinged with contempt. ‘May we come in?’

Still dumb-struck, Mary opened the door and they followed her into a small but pleasant sitting-room. There were piles of books on every flat surface and a bookcase bulging with them. There were some roses in a vase and, on a desk, several exercise books which, Edward thought, must be the children’s school work.

Their dilemma as to whether or not to wake the girls was solved by their appearance on the stairs. They were in their dressing-gowns and looked very young.

‘Daddy – is that you?’ Ada called, rubbing her eyes.

‘No, I’m afraid it’s not,’ Verity said, her heart cold with fear. She was not good with children at the best of times and no one would find it easy to tell a child her only parent had died – had been murdered. ‘I’m so sorry but we have something very horrible to tell you.’ Jean went very white and took her half-sister in her arms.

‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Has Dad had an accident?’ Verity was interested to note that she called her stepfather “Dad”.

‘Yes, and I’m very sorry to be the person who has to tell you that . . .’

Ada made an unpleasant snorting sound as though she had been punched in the stomach. ‘He shouldn’t have done it . . .’ she cried out and then put her hand to her mouth as though to stifle her words.

‘Dad’s dead?’ Jean asked.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What . . . what happened?’

Verity wished she were a hundred miles away. Seeing her distress, Edward went over to the girls. ‘You must be very brave. We think your father was killed by someone – an enemy.’

‘Where is he?’ Jean’s voice trembled but she did not cry. ‘Can we see him?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Edward said, ‘not now. The police have taken him away.’

Still neither girl was in tears. Ada was shivering uncontrollably in Jean’s arms while Jean was trying with all her might not to burst into tears and frighten her sister even more.

‘Jean,’ Verity said softly, ‘can you help me get Ada up to bed? I’m going to ask the doctor to come over and give her something to calm her. I’ll stay with you tonight and tomorrow we’ll send for your mother. Until she is able to get here, we will look after you,’ she found herself saying. The two girls – particularly Ada – looked so bereft that it was impossible for her to leave them. Mary Tallent was in such a state that – even if she agreed to stay – she would be worse than useless and simply frighten the girls even more.

Mary at last found words. ‘Oh, my! How can I get home in the dark? I might be murdered too.’

‘How did he die?’ Jean asked, ignoring her.

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Verity said, her courage failing her. ‘We can’t tell you anything more now. Mary, where’s the kettle and the hot water bottles?’ Mary, pulling herself together under Verity’s firm gaze, took two stone bottles out of a cupboard and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Now, while the kettle is boiling, help me get the children back to bed, will you?’

As Mary and the children went upstairs, Edward said, ‘V, I’m going back to the house. I’ll telephone the doctor from there. Mrs Brendel will know who I should call and I’ll ask her if she would mind coming over to help you.’

‘Yes, do that, and escort Mary home on your way. She’s not much use here. Oh, and ask Mrs Brendel to bring over some warm clothes for me. I’ll sleep in the armchair, if I can.’

There was a knock at the door. It was PC Watt and the vicar.

‘Paul, I’m so glad you’ve come,’ Edward said. ‘We have just been telling Ada and Jean about Byron. They’ve been very brave but if you could . . .’

The police constable looked relieved. ‘So you’ve already told them, have you? The Inspector asked me to fetch the vicar and come round but if . . .’

‘Thank you, Constable, but there’s nothing you can do for the moment except take Miss Tallent back to her mother. She’s in rather a state, as you can imagine.’

‘It’s a dreadful business. Never come across anything like it in all the years I’ve been here,’ Watt remarked, inanely, Edward thought.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it’s a dreadful business.’

7

The following morning Verity was relieved by Charlotte Hassel, who had finished her book. Tired and depressed, she walked home in time to join Edward at the breakfast table. Mrs Brendel, who had insisted on getting breakfast even though Sunday was her morning off, poured her a cup of coffee and asked after the children. She said she would go to Ivy Cottage later to see what she could do to help Charlotte.

‘You look terrible, V,’ Edward said, unhelpfully.

‘I’m not surprised! I hardly slept while I suppose you were snoring happily. This morning I decided to tell the girls exactly how Byron had died. I didn’t want them to catch sight of lurid headlines in a newspaper and find out we hadn’t been honest with them. I hated having to do it and I’ll never forget Ada’s face. She was stricken – that’s the only word for it.’

‘Can’t we prevent them seeing the newspapers, V?’

‘We can try but they can’t be protected from the truth forever. That’s why I decided to tell them the facts as gently as I could. Jean seemed to accept it and was remarkably calm – almost unnaturally so. Ada has – only temporarily, I hope – lost the power of speech. She hasn’t said a word since I told her. She just smiles sweetly and then stares into space. As I say, she’s stricken – it’s the first time I understood what the word means. I can hardly bear to think about it. I hope I did right to tell her. I remember how children in Spain were traumatized by seeing their parents killed.’

‘Well, thank God, they didn’t see him killed,’ Edward said. ‘I’ve telephoned the Foreign Office and explained the situation. They said they’ll ask our consul in Los Angeles to speak to Mrs Gates, or rather Mary Brand. She’s filming somewhere in Hollywood. I wonder whether we should have Ada and Jean to stay until she gets back?’

‘What do you think, Mrs Brendel? Could we cope if we had them here?’ Verity asked.

‘Yes, mam. If I get a girl in from the village to help, I’m sure we could.’

‘No, that wouldn’t be fair on you, Mrs Brendel,’ Edward said firmly. ‘We’ll find someone qualified – a nanny or a governess – to look after them until Jean’s mother gets back from America.’

‘I suppose so,’ Verity agreed. ‘There don’t seem to be any grandparents or uncles and aunts. What about asking Frieda Burrowes to come down?’

‘It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it? How would Ada feel about her father’s mistress looking after her? And when Jean’s mother returns, do you think she’ll want to find Frieda in her house?’

‘No, you’re right. It was a bad idea,’ Verity admitted. ‘I say, I suppose Frieda knows about Byron?’

‘She must do. Anyway, it’ll be splashed over all the papers tomorrow. Still, maybe I ought to telephone her. It’ll be a terrible shock.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Mrs Brendel broke in, ‘but did you know that Colonel Heron has been arrested? He seemed such a gentleman – I can hardly believe him to be a murderer. When I left Vienna to the Nazis, I thought such horrors were behind me but even here in England . . . to cut off his head! And Mr Gates was such a charming man.’

Edward looked at Verity. ‘They’ve arrested Heron? I call that precipitate. He didn’t do it, Mrs Brendel,’ he added flatly. ‘I’m almost sure of it.’

Verity agreed. ‘What motive could he have had?’

‘He did have a motive,’ Edward reminded her. ‘Do you remember Byron saying that evening at Monk’s House that Heron had accused him of mistreating his first wife?’

‘But why would he “find” the body unless it was some bizarre double bluff? Should we go and talk to the Inspector, Edward?’

‘But what do we know? We would just look like interfering busybodies.’

‘We have to do something. We can’t let the Colonel be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. Someone set him up, I feel it in my bones. I can hardly believe that yesterday was the fête and Byron was alive,’ Verity said, rubbing her eyes. ‘So much has happened in just a few hours. Our nice, peaceful village has been soiled.’

‘I wonder what this chap is like – Inspector Trewen, I mean? I can’t say I took to him last night.’

‘I can tell you a little about him, sir,’ Mrs Brendel put in. ‘When Mr Woolf brought me to live here, he introduced me to the Inspector to make sure I was not . . . troubled. He said some refugees had been suspected of spying and he wanted the police to know that I was respectable.’

Mrs Brendel was as comfortable-looking as an apple strudel and more respectable, but Edward knew that – just as she said – many innocent people, who had fled their country to escape Nazi persecution, faced prejudice and hostility in their new home. Suspicious neighbours and heavy-handed authorities obsessed by the notion of spies and ‘fifth columnists’ tended to see all foreigners as enemies. The police force was a reserved occupation but, even so, a young man with spirit preferred to fight for his country than stay at home to deal with petty crime. Many of the best police had joined the armed forces and some of those who remained were not up to much – either past retirement age or young, ill trained and inclined to be unsympathetic, if not brutal, in their dealings with people who had sought refuge in England. Although Edward would never say so in public, he thought that the force had suffered as a result.

‘So what’s he like, Mrs Brendel?’ Verity asked.

‘He was very polite to me, mam, but that may have been because I was with Mr Woolf. If I may say so, I thought him rather arrogant and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘Not very clever, mam.’

‘I still think we ought to go and talk to the Inspector. I’d hate Colonel Heron to think that we assumed he was guilty.’

‘As long as that’s all it is, V. We swore we wouldn’t get involved in any investigation. The Inspector wouldn’t welcome it and he’d be right.’

‘No, of course not, but still . . .’

As soon as they had finished breakfast, they drove to Lewes in Edward’s Lagonda.

‘What do you think Ada meant last night when she said, “He shouldn’t have done it”?’ Verity asked.

‘I don’t know. Someone’s got to ask her – but not until she has recovered from the shock. I’m worried about her, V. You said that you thought she was very insecure when you talked to her at the fête. God knows what this will do to her. Thank goodness Jean is such a sensible girl. She’s probably in the best position to help Ada come to terms with her loss.’

‘Yes, I agree, but of course Byron wasn’t Jean’s father. Poor Ada is all alone in the world now. Whoever killed him may also have dealt Ada a blow from which she may never recover.’

The police station proved to be a poky little building in the town centre and was already under siege by the press. Edward groaned when he saw the cameras and the notebooks.

‘Oh, my God. I didn’t think there would be this much interest, but I suppose it’s only to be expected. Byron was almost famous.’

‘And not many people are beheaded in this day and age,’ Verity added grimly.

As soon as Edward and Verity were recognized, they were surrounded by reporters who immediately made the assumption that Edward was investigating the murder.

‘My lord,’ Ken Hines, the
News Chronicle
crime reporter called out, ‘is it true that you were a friend of the murdered man?’

‘Please, let me through. I’m sorry, Ken, but I can’t tell you anything.’ Edward had had dealings with the reporter once or twice before and liked him.

‘But you are investigating the killing?’

‘I am not investigating anything. Now please make way. Thank you, Constable.’

A burly constable opened the door of the police station and put out an arm to hold back the mob.

‘I wonder if this is wise,’ Edward muttered, his nerve weakening. ‘Perhaps we should have telephoned the Inspector. You realize, V, that your beastly rag will be on to you for a piece about the murder?’

‘Well, I shan’t oblige,’ she replied unconvincingly. ‘I’m a foreign correspondent not a crime reporter.’

The trouble was that, whatever she might say, she was a newspaper reporter through and through and, even though it wasn’t strictly in her remit, she could not ignore a good story when it was served up to her gift-wrapped. She told herself that she could at least be accurate and protect the girls if she were to write the story, but wouldn’t she be betraying both them and also Colonel Heron?

‘The Inspector cannot see anyone,’ the constable at the desk informed them when they had given their names.

‘We are friends of Colonel Heron,’ Edward said firmly, stretching the truth, ‘and we have some information relating to the murder.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. I will, of course, tell the Inspector . . .’

At that moment, Inspector Trewen himself appeared.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he growled. ‘The amateur detective. You have no doubt already discovered the murderer?’ The contempt in his voice was almost palpable.

‘I am not a detective, amateur or otherwise,’ Edward replied icily. ‘I merely wanted to help the police in their inquiries but I see you are not interested in any information I might have so I shall leave. Here is my card if you wish to see me at any time.’

‘Well, now you are here, I suppose I might as well see you, but I can only give you five minutes,’ Trewen said grudgingly.

‘Verity, will you wait for me here?’ Edward was worried she might lose her temper and say something she would regret if the Inspector proved to be as hostile as he expected. She started to protest but, seeing Edward’s face, reluctantly nodded her head.