The Echo (20 page)

One of the reasons why Reg enjoyed Barry's company so much was that Barry allowed him to practice his ponderous wit, and Barry chuckled dutifully as he picked up the paperback and turned to the copyright page. "First published by Macmillan in nineteen ninety-four, so the review will have come out last year. I'll find it for you," he offered. "Consider it a small thank-you for the book and the tea."

"It could be interesting," said Reg prophetically.

...Another mixed-bag of a book is Roger Hyde's
Unsolved Mysteries of the 20th Century
(published by Macmillan at Ł15.99). Immensely readable, it nevertheless disappoints because, as the title suggests, it raises too many unanswered questions and ignores the fact that other writers have already shed light on some of these "unsolved" mysteries. There are the infamous Digby murders of 1933 when Gilbert and Fanny Digby and their three young children were found dead in their beds of arsenic poisoning one April morning with nothing to suggest who murdered them or why. Hyde describes the background to the case in meticulous detail-Gilbert and Fanny's histories, the names of all those known to have visited the house in the days preceding the murders, the crime scene itself-but he fails to mention M. G. Dunner's book
Sweet Fanny Digby
(Gollanz, 1963) which contained evidence that Fanny Digby, who had a history of depression, had been seen to soak fly paper in an enamel bowl the day before she and her family were found dead. There is the case of the diplomat, Peter Fenton, who walked out of his house in July 1988, after his wife Verity committed suicide. Again, Hyde describes the background to these events in detail, referring to the Driberg Syndicate and Fenton's access to NATO secrets, but he makes no mention of Anne Cattrell's
Sunday Times
feature
The Truth About Verity Fenton
(17th June, 1990) which revealed the appalling brutality suffered by Verity at the hands of Geoffrey Standish, her first husband, before his convenient death in a hit-and-run accident in 1971. If, as Anne Cattrell claims, this was no accident, and if Verity did indeed meet Fenton six years earlier than either of them ever admitted, then the solution to her suicide and his disappearance lies in Geoffrey Standish's coffin and not in Nathan Driberg's prison cell...

Out of interest, Barry searched the microfiche files for the
Sunday Times
of 17th June, 1990. He held his breath as Anne Cattrell's feature appeared with a full-face photograph of Peter Fenton, OBE.

He was as sure as he could be that he was looking at Billy Blake.

There have been few more effective smoke screens than that thrown up by Peter Fenton when he vanished from his house on July 3rd, 1988, leaving his wife's dead body on the marital bed. It began as a sensational Lucan-style murder hunt until Verity Fenton was found to have committed suicide. There followed a rampage through Peter's history, looking for mistresses and/or treachery when it was discovered that he had access to NATO secrets. Interest centered on his sudden trip to Washington, and easy links were drawn with the anonymous members of the Driberg syndicate.

And where did Verity Fenton's suicide feature in all this? Barely at all is the answer because minds were focused on Peter's inexplicable disappearance and not on the reasons why a "neurotic" woman should want to kill herself. The coroner's verdict was "suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed" relying largely on her daughter's evidence that she had been "unnaturally depressed" while Peter was in Washington. Yet no real explanation for her depression was sought as the assumption seems to have been that Peter's disappearance meant that her reference in her suicide note to his betrayals was true, and these were shocking enough to drive a woman to suicide.

Two years on from these bizarre events of July 1988, it is worth reassessing what is known about Peter and Verity Fenton. Perhaps the first thing to strike anyone researching this story is the complete lack of evidence to show that Peter Fenton was a traitor. He certainly had access to confidential NATO information during '85-'87, but sources within the organization admit that three different investigations have failed to trace any leakage of information to him or to his desk.

By contrast, there is a wealth of evidence about his "sudden" trip to Washington at the end of June which was painted as a fishing expedition to find out if Driberg was about to name his associates. The details of the trip were made available at the time by his immediate superior at the Foreign Office but they were ignored in the scramble to prove Fenton a traitor. The facts are that he was briefed on June 6th to attend high-level discussions in Washington from June 29th to July 2nd. It is difficult now to understand how three weeks' notification came to be interpreted as "sudden" or why, if he
were
part of the Driberg syndicate, he should have waited until eight weeks after Driberg's arrest to go "fishing."

The Fenton tragedy takes on a very different perspective if suggestions that Peter was a traitor are dismissed. The question that must then be asked is: What were the betrayals Verity talked about in her suicide note? She wrote:
"Forgive me. I can't bear it anymore, darling. Please don't blame yourself. Your betrayals are nothing compared with mine.

But why have Verity's own betrayals been so consistently underexamined? The simple answer is that, as the wife of a diplomat, she was always less interesting than her husband. What or who could a "neurotic" woman possibly have betrayed that could compete with treachery in the Foreign Office? Yet it was imperative, even in '88, that her betrayals be examined because she claimed they were worse than her husband's, and
he
was branded a spy.

Born Verity Parnell in London on September 28th, 1937, she was brought up alone by her mother after her father. Colonel Parnell, died in 1940 during the evacuation from Dunkirk. She and her mother are believed to have spent the war years in Suffolk but returned to London in 1945. Verity was enrolled at a preparatory school before transferring to the Mary Bartholomew School for Girls in Barnes in May 1950. Although considered bright enough to go on to university, she chose instead to marry Geoffrey Standish, a handsome, thirty-two-year-old stockbroker who was fourteen years her senior, in August 1955. The marriage caused an estrangement between herself and her mother, and it is not clear whether she saw Mrs. Parnell again before the woman's death some time in the late '50s. Verity gave birth to a daughter, Marilyn, in 1960 and a son, Anthony, in 1966.

The marriage was a disaster. Geoffrey was described, even by close friends, as "unpredictable." He was a gambler, a womanizer and a drunk, and it soon became clear to those who knew him that he was taking out his frustrations on his young wife. There was a history of "accidents," days of indisposition, a reluctance to do anything that might upset Geoffrey, an obsessive protectiveness towards her children. It is not surprising then that, according to one of her neighbors, Verity described her husband's death in March 1971 as a "blessed relief."

Like so much in this story, the details surrounding Geoffrey's death are obscure. The only verifiable facts are these: he had arranged to spend the weekend alone with friends in Huntingdon; he phoned them at 5:00 p.m. on the Friday night to say he wouldn't be with them until the following day; at 6:30 a.m. on the Saturday, a police patrol recorded his car abandoned with an empty gas tank beside the All near Newmarket; at 10:30 a.m. his bruised and battered body was found sprawled in a ditch some two miles up the road; his injuries were consistent with having been run over by a car.

On the face of it, it was a straightforward case of hit-and-run while Geoffrey was walking through the dark in search of gas, but because of the last-minute alterations in his plans, the police attempted to establish why he was in the vicinity of Newmarket. They had no success with that line of inquiry but, in the course of their investigation, they unearthed the unpalatable details of the man's character and lifestyle. Although they were never able to prove it, it is clear from the reports that the Cambridgeshire police believed he was murdered. Verity herself had a cast-iron alibi. She was admitted to St. Thomas's Hospital on the Wednesday before Geoffrey's death with a broken collarbone, fractured ribs, and a perforated lung, and was not discharged until the Sunday. Her children were being cared for by a neighbor, so there is some doubt about Geoffrey's whereabouts on the Friday. Certainly he did not go to work that day, and this led to police speculation that someone, whose sympathies lay with Verity, removed him from his house during the Thursday night and cold-bloodedly planned his murder over the Friday.

Unfortunately, from the police point of view, no such sympathizer could be traced, and the file was closed due to lack of evidence. The coroner recorded a verdict of "manslaughter by person or persons unknown," and Geoffrey Standish's premature death remains unpunished to this day.

Now, however, with our knowledge of the events of July 3rd, 1988, it is logical to look back from the suicide of a desperate woman and the disappearance of her second husband to Geoffrey's death in 1971, and ask whether the person whose sympathies lay with Verity was a young and impressionable Cambridge undergraduate called Peter Fenton. Newmarket is less than 20 miles from Cambridge, and Peter was known to make frequent visits to the family of a friend from his Winchester College days who lived ten doors away from Geoffrey and Verity Standish in Cadogan Square. There is no evidence to rebut Peter and Verity's own claims that their first meeting was at a party at Peter's friend's house in 1978, but it would be curious if their paths hadn't crossed earlier. Certainly, the friend, Harry Grisham, remembers the Standishes being regular guests at his parents' dinner parties.

But, assuming Peter's involvement, what could have happened seventeen years after Geoffrey's murder to drive Verity into killing herself and Peter into vanishing? Did one of them betray the other inadvertently? Had Verity been ignorant of what Peter had done, and learned by accident that she'd married her first husband's murderer? We may never know, but it is a strange coincidence that two days before Peter left for Washington the following advertisement appeared in the personal column of the
Times
:

"
Geoffrey Standish.
Will anyone knowing anything about the murder of Geoffrey Standish on the All near Newmarket 10/3/71 please write to Box 431."

Terry was put out to discover that his clothes were still wet when he finally stumbled out of his bedroom in an old T-shirt and shorts of Deacon's, rubbing his shaven head and yawning sleep away. "I can't go out in your god-awful stuff, Mike. I mean I've got a reputation to consider. Know what I'm saying? You'll have to go shopping on your own while I wait for this lot to dry."

"Okay." Deacon consulted his watch. "I'd better get moving then, or I'll miss the chance to break Hugh's nose."

"You really going to do that?"

"Sure. I was also planning to buy you some new gear for a Christmas present, but if you're not there to try it on-" he shrugged. "I'll get you some reading books instead."

Terry was back, fully dressed, in under three minutes. "Where did you put my coat?"

"I chucked it in the bin downstairs while you were having your bath."

"What you want to do that for?"

"It had Walter's blood all over it." He took a Barbour from a hook on the wall. "You can borrow this till we buy you a new one."

"I can't wear that," said Terry in disgust, refusing to take it. "Jesus, Mike, I'll look like one of those poncy gits who drive around in Range Rovers. Supposing we meet someone I know?"

"Frankly," growled Deacon, "I'm more concerned about meeting someone
I
know. I haven't worked out yet how to explain why a foulmouthed, shaven-headed thug is-A-staying in my flat and-B-wearing my clothes."

Terry put on the Barbour with bad grace. "Considering how much of my puff you smoked last night you ought to be in a better mood."
 

Barry lay in bed and listened to his mother's heavy tread on the stairs. He held his breath while she held hers on the other side of his door. "I know you're awake," she said in the strangulated voice that seemed to start somewhere in her fat stomach and squeeze up out of her blubbery mouth. The door handle rattled. "Why have you locked the door?" The voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "If you're playing with yourself again, Barry, I'll find out."

He didn't answer, only stared at the door while his fingers gripped and squeezed her imaginary neck. He fantasized about how easy it would be to kill her and hide her body somewhere out of sight-in the front parlor, perhaps, where it could sit for months on end with no visitors to disturb it. Why should someone so unlovely and unloved be allowed to live? And who would miss her?

Not her son...

Barry fumbled for his glasses and brought his world back into focus. He noticed with alarm that his hands were trembling again.
 >

"Why haven't you ever been arrested?" asked Deacon as Terry selected a pair of Levi's, saying they'd be "a doddle to nick." (He made a habit of locating security cameras and staying blind side of them, Deacon noticed.)

"What makes you think I ain't?"

"You'd have been sent back into care."

The boy shook his head. "Not unless I told them the truth about myself, which I ain't never done. Sure I've been arrested, but I was always with old Billy when it happened so he took the rap. He reckoned I'd have trouble with poofs if I went into an adult prison or be sent back to the shirt-lifter if I gave my right age, so it were him what did the time and not me." His gaze shifted restlessly about the shop. "How about a jacket, then? They're on the far side." He set off purposefully.

Deacon followed behind. Were all adolescents so ruthlessly self-centered? He had an unpleasant picture of this terrible child latching on to protectors like a leech in order to suck them dry, and he realized that Lawrence's advice ibout keeping one step ahead was about as useful as pissing p the wind. Any halfway decent man with a sense of moral duty was putty in Terry's hands, he thought.