The Quality of Mercy (22 page)

‘Oh, there you are. I thought you’d forgotten,’ she said crossly.

Verity apologized meekly and explained that she had got lost.

‘You didn’t take a cab?’

‘No, I knew it was near the underground station but I turned the wrong way when I came out.’

‘Well, come up then. I was just trying to clear the flat up a bit but I got stuck. I know he’d hate me messing around with his things.’

As she entered the flat, Verity looked around her and tried to catch the personality of the man. In the first place, he seemed to have been both messy and organized. There were paint stains everywhere – on the floor, on the easel, on the few pieces of furniture, even on the ceiling. However, she had the feeling that he would have been able to put his finger on any tube of paint, brush or knife without having to think about it. It obviously upset Vera to be there. Her uncle’s presence was almost palpable in the artist’s clutter, as though he had only popped out to buy a packet of cigarettes and his footsteps would soon be heard on the stairs. He had already selected some of the paintings for his – now posthumous – show and these were stacked against the walls in neat piles.

‘What are you going to do? Move into the flat or sell it?’ she asked Vera.

‘I haven’t quite decided. There’s no studio at Lawn Road and it would be lovely to have a place of my own instead of having to go to the Slade but I don’t know if I could afford it. Anyway, I’ve only recently moved into my flat and I like it. There’s a community of painters there – quite a few refugees from Germany who we support while they find their feet.’

Vera was not a Communist but she was an active member of the Hampstead Artists’ Council which helped bring refugees to London from Nazi Germany. When Verity told her about Georg’s death she was horrified.

‘To have come so far and to die just when he had reached a safe haven . . .! My uncle would have felt it . . . He hated to hear of violent death. It reminded him of the war. After it ended, he was plagued by depression – well, you already know about that,’ she said, rubbing her forehead and wiping more dust into her face as she did so. ‘Bad dreams and worse – there were days . . . weeks . . . when I expected him to try and kill himself.’

Verity wondered what it must have been like for her to grow up constantly fearing for her uncle’s mental stability. It must, she thought, prematurely age a child.

‘Was he ill-treated in those hospitals?’ She didn’t want to say lunatic asylums.

‘Not ill-treated – not deliberately, anyway. They used drugs to quieten him but . . . but they didn’t make him better. I think they used patients like guinea-pigs to try out new treatments. You can’t blame them, I suppose.’ Despite her forgiving words, she sounded bitter.

‘But he did get better?’

‘Yes, that was odd. Of course, it was partly that time is – how does it go? – “the great healer”. But, as this new war loomed, it seemed to change his mood.’

‘It made him fearful that history would repeat itself?’

‘He certainly hated the idea of another war, as every sane person does. He said he was glad he only had me and that I was a girl not a boy. But . . . I don’t know – with something definite . . . something
outside
himself to fear, he seemed . . . not more cheerful exactly but more determined, less introspective.’

‘In what way determined? He was too old to fight in the army.’

‘It wasn’t that. He always said he wished he had been a conscientious objector. At the outbreak of war, he had been as patriotic as anyone. He joined up expecting to be home . . . if not by Christmas at least in a few months. He despised “conchies”. It was only later that he understood their point of view and what they had to face . . . how brave many of them were in the face of so much hostility. Women would hand out white feathers to men not in uniform and “conchies” were thought to be little better than traitors.’

‘Even though many became stretcher-bearers and medical orderlies?’

‘I wish I could explain what I mean. He felt that he and millions of others had been
tricked
into fighting in 1914 but that Hitler was absolutely evil and
had
to be fought.’

‘May I see the picture he was working on when he died?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry for talking so much but there are so few people I can talk to about him. And with your experience of being in battle . . . you know about nerves and all that.’

‘I do,’ Verity said with a shiver. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I felt when my boss said I wasn’t to go back to Spain. I wasn’t sure I could face it but at least I wouldn’t have been court-martialled if I had refused to go. For soldiers like your uncle . . . they risked being shot.’

Vera brought out from underneath a sheet a canvas of startling beauty. It was a landscape – the view from Tarn Hill he always painted – but it had a freshness which even Verity, who did not know much about art, could appreciate. It was as though the artist was seeing the rolling hills and river valley for the first time but, of course, it was because he knew it so well that he could record it so accurately and with such loving care. It was unfinished and that too helped make it seem a living work – as though the artist was only waiting for the light to improve before setting up his easel again and mixing his oils on the palette with his knife.

‘I like it. I really do,’ Verity said, feeling inadequate. ‘I wish I was knowledgeable about art like Edward and knew what to say.’

‘I like it too. I’ve decided not to sell it. I shall keep it to remember him by. I thought it might make me sad as it was the last thing he did but it doesn’t. It makes me remember him being happy which is the way I
want
to remember him.’

Verity peered at the top right-hand corner where Gray had scribbled his notes.

‘See?’ Vera pointed. ‘He used Red Windsor. Here’s the tube.’

‘M – I think it’s an M – Tarn Hill – Sat.’ Verity read aloud. ‘Have you got a magnifying glass by any chance? I can’t make it out. Is it an M or an R? I’m not sure.’

‘Yes, there’s one here somewhere. Uncle Peter’s sight wasn’t as good as it used to be and he used a magnifying glass to read small print. Hold on – it should be here.’ She rifled around in a paint-stained chest of drawers. ‘Ah! Here we are!’ She waved it triumphantly. ‘He was a very methodical man. He said a painter had to be like a surgeon. He had to have all the tools of his trade to hand so that, when things were going well, he didn’t need to break his rhythm searching for a tube of paint or knife.’

Verity took the magnifying glass close to the corner of the canvas. ‘You know, I do believe . . .’ she said slowly, ‘that it isn’t a letter of the alphabet at all. I think it is an emblem – I don’t know – a flower perhaps. It’s just a squiggle. He wouldn’t need to be reminded what it was. It was just an
aide-mémoire
. You look.’

Vera took her place. ‘I do believe you are right. I think it
is
a flower – a rose perhaps . . .? I suppose I just thought it would be the initial of the person he was meeting.’

‘Well, let’s say it is a rose. Maybe it stands for a name. Rose is quite a common name. Did he know anyone called Rose?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Vera said, furrowing her brow.

‘There was a man staying with Lord Louis Mountbatten . . . Stuart Rose – an American. He’s something to do with painting – a critic or a dealer. I was introduced to him but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t take much notice. I just remember feeling I didn’t like him.’

‘I can ask Uncle Peter’s friend – Reg Harman. He might know.’

Verity looked round the room. ‘There’s nothing missing – nothing unusual?’

‘You really think my uncle might have been murdered?’ Vera asked suddenly.

Verity was immediately apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Why would he have been murdered? But I can’t help wondering why he took that ergot when you say he no longer needed it. And then – dying like he did . . . I’m probably just imagining things but it seems . . . not right somehow. I can’t explain. Woman’s instinct?’ she offered weakly.

‘Does Lord Edward have doubts too?’

‘He does . . . just doubts – there’s no evidence, you understand.’

‘Woman’s instinct?’ Vera inquired wryly.

‘Not in his case. Look, shall I just go away? I’d hate you to think I was poking my nose into your affairs to satisfy my curiosity and for no good reason.’

‘No. I need to find out the truth. Just like you need to find out who killed Mr Dreiser. Ask me anything you like.’ She sounded almost defiant. Looking around her, she continued, ‘I don’t think there’s anything missing.’

Verity had a thought. ‘Might I look at the case he carried his paints and brushes in? I mean, I suppose when he went to Tarn Hill or wherever, he took his stuff with him in some sort of case.’

‘Yes. The police found it and gave it back to me.’

‘Is that it?’ Verity pointed at a dirty wooden case.

‘Yes.’ Vera opened it and looked inside. ‘It was a Christmas present from my mother I don’t know how many years ago. He always used it.’

‘It’s beautifully made.’ Verity was looking at the dozen or so different-sized partitions in which paints and brushes could be safely stored and carried without rattling around.

‘You said your uncle was very methodical? Can you see if there is anything missing?’

Vera pulled open a layer of drawers to reveal another beneath it. ‘I can’t see anything . . . wait a moment. Where’s his palette knife? He always used a palette knife. It was one I gave him about ten years ago when the handle of his old one broke.’

‘Perhaps it’s still on Tarn Hill.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ Vera said doubtfully, ‘but the police said they had cleared everything up very carefully. I’m sure they would have seen it.’

‘It’s definitely not in the flat?’

‘I don’t think so. He always kept it in this box.’ She lifted a few objects listlessly.

‘Is that it – under the table?’ Verity knelt down and picked up a battered-looking knife.

‘Fancy that! That’s it all right. How could it have got there, I wonder?’

‘It must have fallen out of the box.’

‘But I haven’t opened it since it was brought back from Tarn Hill.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Quite sure!’

‘So he went to paint on Tarn Hill and forgot to take his knife.’

‘He was getting rather confused . . .’ she began and then stopped. She looked at Verity uncertainly.

10

‘I made one useful friend in Vienna – an attaché at the British Embassy called Ruthven-Stuart,’ Edward told Verity. They were in St James’s Park exercising Basil who was relishing the new and exotic scents. Verity continually had to tell him not to pull on his lead but he took absolutely no notice.

‘A thoroughly nice man, I thought. We went for a long walk in Grinzing to admire the view. We stopped at a
heuriger
overlooking the city – an inn where the Viennese go on fine Sundays to drink wine from local vineyards. We shared a jug of rather sour white wine and devoured a plate of smoked meats because the exercise had made us ravenous. He told me about Vienna in happier times – how he loved the opera. For a
schilling
one could get a seat in the gods, he said, and hear Bruno Walter or Knappertsbusch conduct
Der Freischutz
or Wagner. I wish I had spent time there when I was younger.’

Verity was amused by Edward’s nostalgia for a place he had never known. She had rarely seen him give way to anything like sentimentality.

‘But you saw the swastikas hanging from every public building?’ she said brutally. ‘The Communists were the only party to put up a fight and they’re now all in camps or dead. Better dead, I expect.’

‘I did see the swastikas, yes, and the Jewish shops with their broken glass and hateful slogans daubed on the doors. That’s what made me sad. Can Vienna survive the war? Does it deserve to? The bombing . . .’

‘I should worry about London first,’ Verity said grimly. Trying to change his mood, she went on, ‘This Ruthven-Stuart from the Embassy. . . why were you talking to him?’

‘I was talking about what we could do to help get the Jewish children out of the city. There’s a train planned for two weeks on Tuesday. Of course, the authorities may cancel or postpone it but I said Mersham Castle would take as many as could be fitted on the train, at least until they could be found English families to take them in.’

Verity felt she had been wrong-footed but was glad of it. She had suspected him of taking on a spying job for Churchill or some secret government agency but decided she had done him an injustice. She could not know that her suspicions were justified and that Edward had also been talking to Ruthven-Stuart about spiriting out of Vienna a scientist working on the German atomic bomb.

‘You haven’t told me if you have decided to marry me or not,’ he said attempting to sound casual.

‘Well, you haven’t offered me a ring on bended knee,’ she riposted. Then, seeing he might reasonably interpret this as a ‘yes’, she added, ‘I’ve already told you – I can’t think about us until we have got to the bottom of why Georg died. I feel his ghost urging me on. I’m sure you have an apt quotation from Shakespeare to annoy me with.’

‘“Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold. Hence, horrible shadow!”’

‘
Hamlet
?’

‘
Macbeth
.’

‘I’ve told you before, you’re over-educated. Basil! You’re pulling my arm off. You take him for a minute, will you, Edward? So, what happened when you went back to say goodbye to the Dreisers?’

‘Nothing. They had nothing to add. It was almost as if . . . how can I put it? . . . that Georg had died when he left Vienna. They knew then that they would never see him again, on this earth at least. To hear from me that he had died before them was a shock, of course. I told you I heard Frau Dreiser’s cry of pain, and I won’t ever forget it, but it was as if they had ceased to expect death to do them any favours. They asked me to see that he was buried as a Jew and of course I said I would. I believe he ought to have been buried within twenty-four hours but until the police release the body . . . And they were unhappy when I said there would have to be an autopsy. Apparently, that can be seen as defiling the body.’