Sweet Sorrow (26 page)

Leaving the company shocked and silenced, he stumbled off into the night.

16

Edward always felt his heart beat faster when he came back to Cambridge. As Verity had often remarked, he was what Eton and Cambridge had made him. Eton had given him security – the ‘family life’ of which he had been deprived at home. At Mersham, the attention had been focused on his eldest brother Frank who was killed in the first months of the war. After this tragedy, Gerald became heir to the dukedom. Edward, as the youngest of the three brothers, was ignored.

He was packed off to school where he thrived. He worked hard and entered sixth form as someone to be reckoned with – the equal of the scholarship boys, or ‘tugs’ as they were called at Eton. In sport his straight eye and natural athleticism had been recognized with a bouquet of coloured caps and ties. He had been elected to Pop – the group of senior boys who effectively ran the school – and had left Eton in a cloud of privilege and popularity.

Cambridge had been altogether more difficult. He could see in retrospect that he had done well at Eton in order to prove to his father that he was as worthy of attention as his elder brothers – particularly Frank, who had made the ultimate sacrifice. He had failed to make his point. His father had taken his success for granted. So, when he went up to the university he was, defiantly, intent on failing. He was bored by the work and hardly troubled to prove himself on the river or the cricket field. He was moody and made no real friends, content to lounge around with a few Etonians who had come up with him. In short, there was a very real possibility that he might ‘go to the bad’, get ‘sent down’, achieve nothing.

Fortunately, one of the dons, George Greyshott, a medieval historian of some note, had taken him by the scruff of his neck and made him ‘buck up’. He had got the boy interested in his namesake, King Edward I – nicknamed ‘Longshanks’ and the Hammer of the Scots.

Greyshott, or GG as he was known to the undergraduates, was now retired but, whenever Edward was in Cambridge, he went to see him in his cottage on the outskirts of the town. He had a spare room and Edward had used it once or twice when attending a dinner and was in no fit state to drive back to town. Like many dons, GG wasn’t a ladies’ man and Edward was a bit nervous about introducing him to Verity but thought there was a chance that these two rather awkward, sharp-edged people might get on.

When Edward had telephoned to say he was going to be in Cambridge, he explained that, now he was married, he would quite understand if GG would find it more convenient if he and Verity put up at an hotel. To his delight, Greyshott had insisted that they stay with him. Apparently, he was an admirer of Verity’s journalism and wanted to hear her views on the Spanish Civil War and the current European crisis.

The hall at Newnham was packed to the rafters but Edward and Verity had seats reserved for them in the front row. Just as the lecture was about to begin, Tommie rushed in, looking rather flurried, and sat down beside them.

‘It’s Paul,’ he hissed in Edward’s ear. ‘He’s in Cambridge and in a bad way. I’m very much afraid that he might do something stupid. He says he’s going to tell his niece that she must leave Newnham.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Edward hissed back.

‘No, nothing, thanks. I’ll go and keep an eye on him after the lecture.’

Edward tried to concentrate as Pernel Stachey – pleasant-voiced, earnest but not without humour – opened the proceedings. She spent a good five minutes talking about her friend Morgan Forster’s newly formed National Council for Civil Liberties before introducing Virginia in glowing terms.

Verity looked about her with interest. It was the first time she had been in a Cambridge college and it reminded her of being back at school. The smell of unwashed girls was noticeable if not overpowering. The college bathrooms and lavatories were totally inadequate although the previous Principal had been heard to remark that she couldn’t see what the fuss was about as the summer term only lasted eight weeks.

Perhaps predictably, Virginia had called her talk ‘A Room of One’s Own’. Ten years earlier, she had given a series of lectures at Newnham and Girton examining whether women were capable of producing work of the quality of William Shakespeare’s and suggesting that – until they had space and time for anything other than domestic work, and that usually meant a measure of financial independence – it was almost impossible for them to be writers and artists.

This time she spoke about what had been done in the last decade to improve the lot of women, particularly those who wanted to participate in worlds which, until recently, were reserved solely for men. To Verity’s pleasure and embarrassment, she mentioned her by name and her work as a reporter of world events. Without having to turn his head, Edward could feel the audience craning to get a glimpse of her and felt proud.

When the lecture was over, Virginia answered questions and was amused rather than offended when two questions were directed at Verity.

‘You must invite Verity to come and lecture,’ Virginia whispered to Pernel. ‘I think you would find that they would flock to hear her.’

Pernel brusquely informed the questioners that they could talk to Verity later, insisting that, as a guest, she could not be expected to take questions from the platform and was certainly not
obliged
to answer any questions.

When Virginia left the platform, she was immediately surrounded by a group of students – mostly women in their twenties or thirties but some older – who were eager to ask her about her work. She was even asked to sign copies of her books. Pernel frowned at this and would have stepped in to prevent it had not Virginia indicated that she did not mind.

To Edward’s amusement, Verity was surrounded by a rather larger group of admirers. He was delighted to see his wife lionized by intelligent young people and tried to make himself invisible. She deserved to be fêted and he knew it would do much for her fragile self-confidence. He retreated to a corner to talk to Tommie but he made his excuses and went off in search of Paul Fisher.

Much to his surprise, one girl – rather younger than most of the women – came up to Edward and introduced herself.

‘I believe you know my uncle. He said you were coming to Newnham for the lecture.’

‘Your uncle?’

‘Paul Fisher.’

‘Of course! You must be Catherine?’

‘Yes, Catherine Fisher . . . or rather, Catherine Gates.’

‘Catherine Gates? I don’t understand.’

‘I call myself Catherine Fisher but actually Byron Gates was my father.’

Edward was nonplussed. ‘How could he have been your father?’

‘I can’t tell you now, there’s no time. You’re about to be called in to dinner. I say, I don’t want to be a bore but I wondered if we could meet later? It’s important. I need to talk to you about my uncle.’

‘About Paul? Of course we can meet. When and where do you suggest? If there’s anything I can do . . . though I’m afraid he doesn’t have a lot of time for me. By the way, my friend Tommie Fox – he’s also a friend of your uncle’s – has gone to look for him. I don’t know if you met Tommie? He came to the lecture but slipped out afterwards. I know he was worried about Paul.’

‘Yes, I do know him and I’m very grateful but, Lord Edward, my uncle needs
your
help. He seems to be in trouble. He won’t tell me exactly what but I think it’s to do with a murder in his parish. He said you would know. I think he may have wanted me to talk to you though he wouldn’t admit it. The truth is I’m afraid of what he might do.’

‘I see. Well, I hope he can be persuaded to talk to me but I wouldn’t count on it. As I say, he doesn’t approve of me. Look, shall I cut this dinner and come with you?’ Edward offered, sensing the girl’s distress. ‘I’m sure the Principal would understand.’

‘Thank you but no. You must stay for the dinner. I’m probably getting het up about nothing.’

Pernel was beckoning the guests to follow her. ‘Where’s Paul staying?’ Edward asked hurriedly.

‘With Aunt Gladys and me.’

‘Give me your address.’

‘No, we can’t meet there. I don’t want my aunt to know that I’ve talked to you. She wouldn’t understand. I’ll meet you on the Backs, behind King’s College Chapel – say about eleven?’

‘Are you allowed out so late?’

Catherine looked at him pityingly. ‘I am grown up, you know.’ Then she added conspiratorially, ‘I can get out of my bedroom window without my aunt knowing – a convenient drainpipe.’ The tension left her face for a moment and she looked younger and prettier.

‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Verity asked as he caught up with her.

‘Paul Fisher’s niece, Catherine. Do you remember him mentioning he had a niece at Newnham? She lives with her aunt in Cambridge. I’m not sure where exactly – she wouldn’t give me the address. She’s worried about Paul. Apparently he’s in rather a state. I haven’t had a chance to tell you but Tommie says he’s in Cambridge and he’s gone to see if he can do anything to help. Catherine says she needs to talk to me so I’ve agreed to meet her on the Backs about eleven.’ Verity looked puzzled so Edward had to explain. ‘That’s by the river. Come on, Pernel is looking cross with us for lagging behind.’

On any other occasion, Edward would have enjoyed the evening. The dinner was good and the dons friendly. There were several from other colleges most of whom seemed to be spending the long vacation in Cambridge researching or writing books – as well as some favoured students, all women. If this was the kind of female who wanted to fill in the gaps in her education, Edward decided that he was all in favour of it. But try as he would to be interested in the burning issues of the day, he could only join in half-heartedly. Would Newnham be closed down in the event of war? When would women be awarded degrees? What did he think of women in the House of Commons? Had he met Nancy Astor or Ellen Wilkinson ? Although he found himself stimulated and entertained, his thoughts constantly strayed to his meeting on the banks of the Cam and the girl who might hold the key to the identity of the Rodmell murderer.

Several hours later, he escorted Verity through narrow arches, down little-used passages and across damp grass towards the river, their way lit only by the occasional lamp and an almost full moon. Verity was reminded of Venice, which she had only seen in pictures but imagined having this same air of floating through time, above and beyond reality. The spires gleamed ghostly pale in the silvery light and, clinging tightly to Edward’s arm, she felt very much a stranger.

Cambridge was not her natural habitat – she was not an academic and found it difficult to understand the intellectual urge that made women shut themselves away to study as though they were nuns. True, their host, Pernel Strachey, was active in what Verity thought of as the real world and fought doughtily for women’s rights, but she was an exception.

As they passed beneath the shadow of King’s College Chapel, a vague feeling of foreboding made her shiver. Suddenly, the bells of Cambridge began to chime eleven. Verity had never liked the sound of church bells, perhaps because they challenged her lack of faith or reminded her how short life could be, but these chimes were different. Yes, they seemed to say, we are living on the edge of a precipice and these are almost certainly the last days of peace, but England will survive as it has survived so many trials in its long history. Her anxiety was replaced by an equally irrational optimism. Surely the Luftwaffe could never triumph over so much beauty and wisdom? She was being sentimental, she knew, but there it was – she was calmed and reassured.

They had no difficulty in seeing Catherine, a single white figure on Clare Bridge, gazing up at King’s College Chapel as though expecting to see something or someone appear among its elegant spires and turrets. To Verity, the Chapel seemed too large for its surroundings, as though the medieval Christians who had built it had committed an error of taste, but Edward seemed entranced.

His mood changed as soon as Catherine ran towards them, waving and pointing.

‘Lord Edward, thank God you’re here.’

‘Why? What’s the matter?’

‘It’s my uncle. He’s . . . I think he’s gone mad. We were walking up from the river . . . he wanted to talk to me in private. He told me he had decided that Cambridge was a godless place and he wanted me to leave . . . He wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Then we saw the Chapel and I asked him how Cambridge could be godless with a church as beautiful as that.

‘He went all silent and began to breathe in a strange snorting sort of way. I thought he might be having a heart attack but suddenly he started running towards the Chapel. I caught up with him when he stopped for breath. I tried to put my arms round him but he shook me off. He said . . .’ Catherine was crying now and her voice was hoarse. ‘He said God had commanded him to come to Him. He started to run round the Chapel as though he was looking for something. I tried to stop him but he’s surprisingly strong. Then he seemed to find what he was looking for. It’s in a corner over there . . . a sort of ladder. He started climbing up it. I tried to drag him down but I couldn’t. Look . . . there!’

Edward looked up at the Chapel and groaned. He knew that without ropes it was almost impossible to climb the forbidding turrets that sprang from the roof, delicate as crystallized sugar, but it was just possible to climb on to the roof itself. Several undergraduates had managed it in his time but it was dangerous. If you fell halfway up, you could break a limb or worse.

They ran towards the corner of the Chapel where Catherine had seen her uncle start to climb and stared up into the darkness. A black shape like a monstrous spider seemed stuck to the wall about fifteen feet above them.

‘You see, Verity, this corner of the Chapel forms a sort of chimney. I remember trying to climb it once. I’d had too much to drink and nearly killed myself.’

‘Shout to him to come down,’ Verity said. ‘Tell him you want to talk.’

‘I’m afraid of distracting him. If I made him look down or lose his footing he could easily fall and break his neck. Oh God, I think he’s stuck. No, he’s moving again.’