The Quality of Mercy
Read The Quality of Mercy Online
Authors: David Roberts
D
AVID
R
OBERTS
worked in publishing for over thirty years before devoting his energies to writing full time. He is married and divides his time between London and Wiltshire.
Visit www.lordedwardcorinth.co.uk to find out more about David and the series.
Praise for David Roberts
‘A classic murder mystery with as complex a plot as one could hope for and a most engaging pair of amateur sleuths whom I look forward to encountering again in future novels.’
Charles Osborne, author of
The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie
‘Roberts’ use of period detail … gives the tale terrific texture. I recommend this one heartily to history-mystery devotees.’
Booklist
‘
Dangerous Sea
is taken from more elegant times than ours, when women retained their mystery and even murder held a certain charm. The plot is both intricate and enthralling, like Poirot on the high seas, and lovingly recorded by an author with a meticulous eye and a huge sense of fun.’
Michael Dobbs, author of
Winston’s War
and
Never Surrender
‘The plots are exciting and the central characters are engaging, they offer a fresh, a more accurate and a more telling picture of those less placid times.’
Sherlock
Titles in this series
(listed in order)
Sweet Poison
Bones of the Buried
Hollow Crown
Dangerous Sea
The More Deceived
A Grave Man
The Quality of Mercy
Something Wicked
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of
Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006
This paperback edition published by Robinson, an imprint of
Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007
First US edition published by Carroll & Graf Publishers 2006,
this paperback edition, 2007
Carroll & Graf Publishers
An Imprint of Avalon Publishing Group, Inc.
387 Park Avenue South, 12th Floor
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © David Roberts 2006, 2007
The right of David Roberts to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-316-1 (hbk)
UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-661-2 (pbk)
eISBN: 978-1-78033-426-4
US ISBN-13: 978-0-78671-998-3
US ISBN-10: 0-7867-1998-2
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Krystyna
I am grateful to Dr Madeleine Campbell and to Brigadier Arthur Douglas-Nugent for advice on matters equine. I am also grateful to Wera Hobhouse who checked my German and Commander John Roskill for advice on naval matters.
Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.
. . . . . .
The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes . . .
Shakespeare,
The Merchant of Venice
What, is’t murder?
. . . . . .
Mortality and mercy in Vienna
Live in thy tongue and heart.
Shakespeare,
Measure for Measure
Contents
March and April 1938
1
Lord Edward Corinth swung the Lagonda Rapier on to the Romsey road and pressed down the accelerator. The six-cylinder four-and-a-half-litre engine responded magnificently. A similar model had won Le Mans three years earlier in 1935 and, since then, refinements had vastly improved its ability to hold the road at speed, even in the rain. He glanced at the dog in the passenger seat beside him. Basil, Verity Browne’s curly-coated retriever, seemed to be enjoying himself. The wind smoothed the hair on his head to felt. Teeth bared, he appeared to be grinning although, Edward had to admit, it might be fear. Reluctantly, he slowed down. He did not relish the idea of having to tell Verity that her beloved dog – with which he had been entrusted while she was abroad – had been catapulted out of the car by his rash pursuit of some notional speed record.
It was fortunate that he reduced his speed. As he negotiated a sharp bend, he came across a stationary yellow Rolls-Royce straddling the road, steam rising in wisps from its magnificent-looking radiator. He gritted his teeth and pounded the brakes. The Lagonda came to a halt inches from the Rolls. A uniformed chauffeur was standing at the side of the road, cap in hand, red in the face, soundlessly opening and closing his mouth like a gaffed fish. Edward raised his goggles, prepared to berate him for endangering his life and the dog’s. Basil had slid off the seat into the footwell, a bundle of umber fur, too bewildered to bark a protest. Edward breathed again as Basil scrambled out of the car and shook himself vigorously, seemingly none the worse for his brush with death.
‘For goodness sake, man,’ Edward said testily, ‘what the hell’s going on? Get this car off the road before someone gets killed.’
Before the chauffeur could answer a tubby, dark-skinned little man with a baby face decorated with a neat moustache bounded out from behind the Rolls, perspiring though the wind was cold.
‘Don’t blame Perkins. The damn thing suddenly stalled – overheated or something. You’re not hurt, are you? I’m most frightfully sorry.’
The owner of the Rolls, dressed in tweeds – heather mixture, Edward thought – Burberry raincoat and soft felt hat, looked as overheated as his car. He spoke Eton-and-Harrow English with a charming Indian lilt. The expression on his face – at the moment anxious – was, Edward knew, normally good-natured to the point of imbecility.
‘Sunny! It is you, is it not?’
‘M’dear fellow, I . . . Good Lord! Edward? Can it really be you? What an extraordinary thing!’
Sirpendra Behar, Maharaja of Batiala, known to his friends as Sunny, had been in Edward’s House at Eton. He was a year older than Edward and they had become great friends – a friendship cemented by a mutual love of cricket. Even at Eton Sunny had been plump but that had not prevented him being a first-class bat. Edward and he had been in the Eleven and, in Sunny’s last year, they had scored a century apiece in a memorable third-wicket stand that secured Eton the match in their annual tilt with Harrow. It was an innings still talked of – his nephew Frank had informed him – a generation later. Sunny had gone on to help establish the Ranji Trophy in 1935, playing for Baroda. His moment of triumph, however, was scoring a century on the Nawab of Pataudi’s tour of England in 1936 after which he had more or less retired from first-class cricket.
Edward had not seen much of him after they left school – Edward going up to Cambridge and Sunny returning to rule Batiala, his father having died unexpectedly. They shook hands warmly and Edward had an idea that Sunny would have embraced him but restrained himself knowing it to be ‘unEnglish’.
‘I say, Sunny, there’s going to be the most awful pile-up unless we can move your car pretty speedily. I was deuced close to killing myself and, more importantly, killing the dog. I’ll reverse the Lagonda back round the corner to warn any car that comes along that something’s not right. I’ll leave you beside it to wave people down. If I can’t get the Rolls started, your chauffeur and I can at least push it out of the way.’
Edward was no mechanic but he did know a bit about cars. However, his engineering expertise was not required. When he got into the driving seat and pressed the self-starter the engine roared into life. He drove the Rolls a few yards and parked it safely off the road. Sunny’s chauffeur explained that though it was only three months old, it had been plagued with mechanical problems – as were other Phantom IIIs. In fact, instead of having made the best car in the world as they had promised, Rolls was in danger of losing its reputation for engineering excellence. The chauffeur said it was going back to the workshop as soon as they returned to town but the Maharaja had insisted on taking it to Broadlands for the weekend to show Lord Louis Mountbatten who had particularly asked to see it. He loved fast cars and owned a Rolls himself – a Phantom II – a wedding present from his wife. It famously bore on its bonnet a silver signalman in honour of Mountbatten’s connection with the navy.
‘There we are!’ Edward said, relieved. ‘I’ve read somewhere that they have had problems with the Phantom overheating, particularly on those new German
Autobahnen
where one can drive at high speed for long distances. You haven’t been driving the Maharaja on autobahns, have you, Perkins?’
‘We have just returned from the Continent, sir . . .’
At that moment Sunny reappeared looking flustered and slightly ridiculous with his tie askew. It came back to Edward that if his friend had a fault it was that he wanted to be more English than the English.
‘Well done, old boy. I heard the damn thing start. What did you do?’
‘Nothing. Just my magic touch.’
‘Look, old chap,’ Sunny panted, ‘it’s most awfully good to see you again and I’m terribly grateful but I daren’t stop to chat. I promised Dickie I would be there for lunch and it’s after twelve now. Do you know the Mountbattens?’
‘You’re staying at Broadlands?’
‘Yes. Ayesha’s there already. She refuses to come in the Rolls until I get it fixed. She went down by train yesterday. But you’ve not met her, have you?’
‘No, but I would very much like to.’ Edward had been invited to the wedding but he had been in South Africa at the time. He heard it had been a tremendous affair and regretted missing it. The Maharani was said to be very beautiful and when, on her wedding day, she had paraded through Batiala on a milk-white elephant her poorest subjects had taken her for a goddess. She, like Sunny, had been educated in England, at Benenden, an exclusive boarding school for girls in Kent. Sunny’s father had understood how important it was for a state like Batiala that the Maharaja and Maharani should be able to deal with the British on their own terms. ‘I’m spending a few days with my brother at Mersham – you remember the castle, don’t you? You came down for the annual cricket match once, I seem to remember.’
‘And I was out first ball,’ Sunny said ruefully. ‘I was so humiliated but your mother was very kind and comforted me.’
