A Fête Worse Than Death (36 page)

‘It's the '75,' said his uncle, with a touch of pride. ‘There are still a few bottles downstairs and I wanted to drink it before it “went back”, as they say. However, it needs a special occasion.'

‘This would make anything into a special occasion,' said Haldean, reverently swirling the pale liquid in his glass. ‘Here's to you, Greg. I couldn't have done it without you. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't even have tried.'

Gregory Rivers looked suitably abashed. ‘Well, it wasn't that difficult. But come on, Jack. Here we all are. We've given you a corking dinner, and I want to be told the whole story, not just bits and pieces. You've got to sing for your supper.'

‘Tell us properly,' said Isabelle. ‘I want to know what was behind it all. How it all started and why. And none of your “with one bound Jack was free” stuff. I knew it was Mrs Verrity,' she added happily. ‘I suspected her like mad. I said so, didn't I, Jack.'

He grinned at her. ‘I know you did, old prune, but it's a fat lot of good suspecting someone without any proof.'

He took a cigar from the box on the table beside him and looked round the room. Aunt Alice by the coffee tray, Uncle Philip standing by the sideboard, Greg and Isabelle on the sofa, Martin Tyburn with one hand casually covering Marguerite's, and Ashley, looking very much at ease with a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other, all waiting to hear the story.

He picked up the cutters and carefully clipped the end of his cigar. ‘Well, you asked for it. Here goes.' He lit his cigar, snuggled back in his chair and blew out a contented mouthful of smoke. ‘Mrs Verrity's a good person to start with, though, Belle, because it all began when Anne-Marie Verrity, who was at a loose end after her husband died, set up her hospital outside Auchonvillers in 1915. It quickly gained a reputation as a thriving social centre as well as one of the best hospitals on the front and that, as far as anyone knew, was all fine and dandy, because it ensured a steady flow of donations to keep up the good work. What
wasn't
known was that Anne-Marie Verrity had had a scorching affair with a German Royal in Vienna, which resulted in her being recruited to the Kaiser's Secret Service. There were some rather illuminating letters found in her house which helped to dot the i's and cross the t's. With a constant flow of top brass to and from the hospital, Mrs Verrity was in the position of being able to keep the Germans up to date with authentic snippets of information which she had painlessly extracted from her visitors. The Germans had set up their HQ in the Chateau d'Augier and Mrs Verrity could stroll in any time she liked by using the western tunnel whose exit was on d'Augier property near the hospital but whose entrance was in the cellars of the chateau. She was pretty keen I didn't go down that tunnel and I'm not surprised. It was obvious it had been heavily used.'

He frowned at the ashtray beside him. ‘I'm not sure how she got her claws into Whitfield. Probably the most obvious explanation is the correct one, for he was fairly ornamental and sure to attract her attention. She'd known him in England and the affair might have started here, but once in France I imagine that Whitfield, the staff officer, was simply too useful to give mere crumbs of information. She wanted hard facts and once he'd supplied them, she had him nailed. Then came a real crisis; Boscombe discovered the tunnels. Now this spelt Trouble with a capital T. Not only did it give us an unparalleled chance to break through the line and take the Augier Ridge, it would also mean the discovery of Mrs Verrity's activities. That western tunnel was far too convenient to be overlooked, and she wasn't the sort of woman who would keep mum about her confederates. It's a good guess, as well, that the Germans had records in their HQ of where their information had come from and, lo! Whitfield's name would lead to all the rest. He
had
to stop us from reaching the chateau. When the news came through his first action would be to inform Mrs Verrity and then it was up to him. He went to the farm and took control of the second party.'

Haldean glanced at Tyburn. ‘You had already gone into the tunnels, sir, and met with a warm reception. The Germans, alerted by Mrs Verrity, were waiting for you. Boscombe managed to crawl away and hide in the nearest tunnel, where he lay while Whitfield's party went past. From his perspective the second party were also attacked by the Germans who had killed his comrades, and the next thing he knew was that Whitfield was running back down the main tunnel. Whitfield saw him and Boscombe relates in his book how he thought Whitfield was going to shoot him. He was right, of course. Then the third British party turned up and Boscombe was saved. Whitfield, as we know, went on to perform some entirely imaginary heroics, artistically stretching as far as a few minor wounds and placing himself in the rubble. It was, as far as he was concerned, a happy ending. He was awarded the VC, acclaimed as The Man Who'd Saved The Western Front, and only he and Mrs Verrity knew that his gallantry consisted of blocking the tunnel and making sure none of his men survived the frontal attack by shooting them in the back as they faced the enemy. Not nice, is it?'

Tyburn's hand tightened on Marguerite's. ‘I thought he was a traitor, but I had no idea he was a murderer as well.' His face was grim. ‘Those people were my friends.' He took a deep breath. ‘Why did he pick on me to carry the can?'

Haldean took another sip of brandy. ‘It wasn't so much why as how you came to be dropped in it that puzzled Ashley and myself for a while. It was Boscombe's book which gave us the clue. There's a bit where he's in hospital and Mrs Verrity tells him she's had his things brought over. The implication is that she had access to the officers' and men's belongings. They'd all have been piled up together and she could have slipped the papers into your kitbag then. She had to choose an officer to make it credible that he would have access to enough information to be a spy, so she chose the highest-ranking man who had been in the tunnels. It wasn't, if you like, personal.'

‘It
felt
personal,' growled Tyburn.

‘I daresay it did,' agreed Haldean. ‘Of the men who survived, two decided to write down their experiences. Boscombe in the form of a highly polished memoir and Petrie as a war diary. We haven't been able to find the diary, so what follows is pure speculation, but I think we're on the right lines. Petrie was in the second party, the one Whitfield attacked. Now, although in the confusion of the attack Petrie wouldn't have known who was shooting at them, he would have realized there was an enemy behind. And that, much, much later, gave Boscombe, who was a bright boy, cause for thought. Because, you see, Boscombe
knew
there were no Germans behind the British. If they had entered the tunnels he would have seen them. When Boscombe read Petrie's diary, which had been left to his friend, Reginald Morton, his mind was full of the war because of writing his book. But if the Germans hadn't attacked Petrie and the rest, who had? The man who had given him such a fright in the tunnels, of course, our hero, Richard Theodore Whitfield. And Boscombe, as he put it to me afterwards, saw an opportunity for private publication . . .'

‘I don't get it,' said Isabelle, her nose wrinkling. ‘Why are you so sure Petrie's diary didn't just name Whitfield?'

‘Because Morton, who owned the diary, and Boscombe were in it together. If it had been as simple as that, they wouldn't have needed each other to put the squeeze on. And Morton let his girlfriend read it. By itself, you see, it was harmless.'

Lady Rivers put down her coffee cup. ‘I can't get over Mrs Verrity being so ruthless, Jack, to say nothing of her keeping up a pretence for so long.'

‘She was a ruthless woman,' said Haldean, ‘and a very credible one, too. I think, you know, that she'd been playing a part for so long it came as second nature to her. It might reflect something of her love of power. People would only know exactly what she wanted them to know. She was in control of their reactions, you see, or thought she was.'

Lady Rivers put her head on one side. ‘I think you're right. It's odd how often I sensed something artificial around her, but it was her surroundings, not her, that seemed slightly out of key. I must admit I felt very sorry for her at one point. I thought she really cared about Colonel Whitfield.'

‘The funny thing is, Aunt Alice, that you may be right. Yes, I'd love some more brandy, please, Uncle. Thank you very much. I must admit I'm guessing here,' Haldean continued, picking up his refilled glass, ‘but it's a guess which fits the facts. Anne-Marie Verrity was used to having her own way with men. As well as being a real corker in the looks department, she had . . . well, It. Pure S.A. Any man, me included, simply couldn't help looking at her. Now although Whitfield had presumably started off by falling for her, I think the gilt wore off the gingerbread pretty quickly, and our Anne-Marie wasn't used to having her boyfriends turn sour on her. Those letters from Vienna make fascinating reading. I think he grew to hate her and she resented it. So, not being able to obtain his uncritical adoration, she decided to have the next best thing, which was his attention.'

He paused. ‘She – well, she wasn't a
kind
woman. She'd have loved getting under his skin and it was very much to her advantage to keep an eye on him, because although she knew some pretty damaging facts about him, by the same token he also knew some ruinous things about her. She ensured his silence by blackmail.'

Gregory Rivers raised his eyebrows and whistled. ‘Blackmail, Jack? Are you sure?'

‘Quite sure. You tell them, Ashley.'

‘We were able to get at both Whitfield's and Mrs Verrity's bank accounts,' explained Ashley. ‘Whitfield had been paying about fifty pounds a month out to cash ever since the war over and above his legitimate expenses and Mrs Verrity had been raking in the same sum. Apart from the money, it must have made her feel very secure. It gave her the upper hand, you see.'

‘And that arrangement looked set to continue indefinitely,' said Haldean, ‘when along came Boscombe and Morton. They really put the cat amongst the pigeons. They demanded seventy-five pounds a month and Whitfield had to pay up. Although the stables had never really flourished after the war – and no wonder – from October onwards they started going downhill fast. Salvation, as far as Whitfield was concerned, arrived in the shape of you, Marguerite, at Christmas. If Whitfield could get his hands on your money he'd be safe.'

She swallowed. ‘Was that really all there was to it?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘It's never easy to say, is it?' His voice was gentle. ‘I don't believe he had any real feelings for you, no. I'm glad to say there are far better men around than Whitfield, and you've got to remember he was desperate. He saw his stables going to rack and ruin while Mrs Verrity spent money like water. But that's a question I can't really answer. Marrying you must have seemed a very agreeable way of obtaining some money and he must have been flattered by your feelings for him. Anyway, Boscombe upped the ante by getting greedy. Like many another, he found his expenditure kept pace with his income, and so he applied, as you might say, for a pay rise, without mentioning it to Morton. Whitfield, stretched to the absolute limit, couldn't brass up. Now at this point I rather think we can see Mrs Verrity coming into the picture. She was in as much danger as Whitfield. If Whitfield cracked and the truth became known, he would make pretty damn sure that she shared in his downfall. Boscombe came down to see Whitfield to apply a bit of personal pressure and, by doing so, signed his death warrant. For, although he didn't know it, he had come up against Anne-Marie Verrity.

‘It was a shock for everyone when Boscombe arrived at the Red Cross fête at Thackenhurst. Boscombe, to his delight, saw not only Whitfield, but you, Mr Tyburn. He couldn't get to you directly but used the opportunity to screw some more money out of Marguerite. If he had lived, you would probably have received a billet-doux from him in fairly short order. Mrs Verrity, who had a very French grasp of practicalities, realized that the quickest way out of the dilemma was to kill Boscombe. Now here's where, if I had been paying attention, I could have got to the bottom of things. It worried me that Boscombe was shot, because who on earth takes a revolver to a fête? The answer is no one, of course – after all, this is Sussex, not the Wild West – but Mrs Verrity had by far the best opportunity to get a gun. After all, all she had to do was walk into her own house. I should have realized that, you know.'

‘And so did Mrs Verrity shoot Boscombe?' demanded Isabelle. ‘I don't see how she could have done.'

Haldean grinned at her. ‘Perpend, old thing. I think the original plan was for Whitfield to do the deed as and when the opportunity arose. But his best chance, which was when Boscombe, who by this time was bottled and sleeping it off in the fortune teller's tent, was ruined by the vicar arriving wanting to talk about ponies. D'you remember Whitfield's reaction, Greg? He was pretty shirty about it and went off with very bad grace. Then you met up with him, Uncle Philip, and escorted him back to the cake competition stall where he finally managed to see Mrs Verrity. You saw them, Belle, if you recall, round the side of the tent. You said they seemed to be having an argument. I bet they were! It ended with Mrs Verrily taking back her gun and deciding to tackle Boscombe's demise herself. She knew from Whitfield that Boscombe was laid out in Mrs Griffin's tent, so decided to get Mrs Griffin out of the way by awarding her first prize in the cake competition. That meant no one would go in the tent until Mrs Griffin returned so, unless Boscombe decided to move, which was unlikely in view of his condition, he was safe for the time being. Then she walked back with Mrs Griffin, in order to congratulate her the better. Credible, isn't it? For otherwise we just might have wondered what the sophisticated Mrs Verrity was doing in the fortune teller's tent at the village fête. And then came the master stroke which I didn't spot and deserve kicking for. I helped her, you see. She laid a trap and I fell right in.'