A Grave Man (8 page)

‘Do you like it – the room?’

‘Oh, was I staring, Sir Simon? I’m so sorry but I have never seen anything like it.’

‘But do you like it?’ he repeated.

‘You have to give me time to absorb it all but, yes, I do. It’s very elegant. May I ask who designed it?’

‘Peter Malacrida – a friend of ours. Italian. Have you met him?’

It so happened that she had, in the Ritz in Paris. He was one of Belasco’s drinking partners. An Italian playboy who also wrote for various newspapers and had written a couple of successful plays. She had not realized he was also an interior decorator.

‘Yes, I met him in Paris – the Marchese Malacrida?’

‘That’s right. He also designed our house in London.’

Verity remembered how elegantly Malacrida had tried to detach her from Belasco and the difficulty she had had in convincing him that he would be unsuccessful. She was glad he was not here to tell stories.

The sound of a Mozart piano concerto wafted through a panel in the walls. Music, as her host had promised, was laid on. It ought to have been horribly vulgar but somehow it was too eccentric for that. It was not to her taste and it was not ‘English’ but she was enjoying it as theatre.

To change the subject she asked Sir Simon if he was planning any more expeditions. ‘It was so exciting when they almost reached the Pole.’

‘I’m too old myself to go on expeditions but my Foundation, which I set up to further scientific and social work, is financing – at least in part – an Anglo-German expedition to the roof of the world.’

‘The roof of the world?’

‘Tibet! To the sacred city of Lhasa, the Forbidden City. Tibet is the last truly secret place on earth. Not even Sven Hedin, the Swedish explorer, reached Lhasa. Have you read James Hilton’s
Lost Horizon
?’

‘Shangri-La, whose people had the secret of eternal youth?’

‘Yes, an icy dream-like place in the high mountains with answers to questions man has always sought.’

Castlewood was becoming very excited. His eyes shone and his soup was still untouched. She noticed that, at the other end of the table, Montillo was listening intently while nodding and smiling as Virginia told some story about Mah-Jongg.

‘What sort of answers?’

‘Miss Browne,’ he looked suddenly grave, ‘it is my belief – our belief – that Tibet is the cradle of our Aryan race.’

‘But the Tibetans aren’t blond and blue-eyed,’ Verity expostulated.

‘No, but my friend Bruno Berger has given me a copy of an extraordinary book,
Die Nordische Rasse bei den Indogermanene Aliens
. It proves that our Aryan ancestors went east from the Nordic heartland in northern Europe through Persia and deep into central Asia – to Tibet. Sometime I shall show you photographs of Tibetan noblemen – they do look Aryan . . .’

‘My dear, finish your soup. We are all waiting.’ Virginia was warning her husband that he was on his hobby horse and that not everyone was listening with sympathy.

As if to prove his antisocial credentials, the young man beside her said, ‘That’s all tommy rot, Castlewood. It’s the sort of mad theory the Nazis like.’

Sir Simon opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it and sank back into his chair.

Verity looked at her neighbour with interest. These were the first words he had spoken at dinner and she wondered exactly who he was. A licensed fool, perhaps, to insult his host without being reprimanded? Having delivered his opinion of Sir Simon’s scientific theories, he relapsed into sulky silence. Verity, to cover her embarrassment – although neither man seemed in the least embarrassed, merely belligerent – asked Sir Simon a question about the building of the house. She sighed with relief as her host, in good spirits again, described the trials and tribulations of creating Swifts Hill. He was clearly a dreamer – not woolly and unpractical but a driven, even ruthless dreamer. He espoused projects and ideas that appealed to the romantic in him. He said himself that he liked the word ‘impossible’ when applied to some idea he had because he could then prove that it was after all possible. Swifts Hill itself might be minimal in design but the building of it was the expression of an idea as fantastic as any medieval castle. To emphasize what he thought was important, he leant right over to Verity and put his hand on hers or on her arm, as though he had to touch her in order to communicate his enthusiasm more directly than through mere words.

Sir Simon’s volubility covered the silence of two of his guests. Maud Pitt-Messanger was steeped in profound gloom and said not a word. She was grieving for her father, no doubt, but her depression seemed too severe to be solely derived from her loss. Graham Harvey, too, seemed gloomy but his eyes glittered and Verity felt he was preparing himself for another outburst and, sure enough, he was.

When he had stopped talking about Swifts Hill, Sir Simon asked her about Spain. He knew the country well but had not been there since the outbreak of the civil war. She told him something about what she had seen but was careful not to get into politics. She guessed that her host might well support General Franco and the Rebels and had no wish to get into a slanging match on the subject. However, she found herself describing the destruction of Guernica and the death of her friend, the photographer, Gerda Meyer.

Before her host could make any comment, Graham Harvey, seeming to drag the words unwillingly from somewhere deep inside him, said harshly, ‘You think of yourself as a Communist, do you not, Miss Browne?’

‘I do because I am,’ she answered crossly. ‘Would you like me to show you my Party membership card?’

‘And yet you sit at the tables of the rich, dressed in what I believe must be a very expensive frock . . .’

Verity was unnerved by this brutal attack and expected Sir Simon to come to her rescue but he seemed unperturbed and merely smiled at her, perhaps hoping for a ‘scene’. She had the feeling he wanted to see her angry and, for this reason, she refused to be. She noticed that Maud was watching Harvey intently, though whether with approval or disapproval it was hard to say.

‘If my eyes do not deceive me, Mr Harvey, you sit at the same table as I do and, if you think wearing dirty trousers and worn-out gym shoes makes you a member of the proletariat, think again.’ She was pleased with her response and thought she had never disliked anyone more than this streak of a man, thin to the point of emaciation, whose unpleasant body odour made her feel nauseous. By this time the whole table was silent, listening to what the young man had to say.

‘I have heard Castlewood talking about you,’ he said with studied insolence. ‘I gather that you are to marry a minor aristocrat. He showed me a photograph of you both in what I believe is called a society magazine. I don’t wish to be rude,’ he smiled for the first time but it was more of a smirk, ‘but just because you found yourself in Guernica and “scooped” – isn’t that the word? – your journalistic rivals, that doesn’t make you a Communist – not in my eyes. Not though you carried a card given you by Lenin himself.’

It was such a blatant attempt to rile her that Verity’s anger was dissipated. She did the best thing possible and broke into laughter which was echoed – with relief – round the table. Sir Simon might be disappointed at being done out of a row but he clearly admired the way she had overcome her difficulty. ‘I can’t take you seriously, Mr Harvey. Who are you trying to impress?’

‘That puts you in your place, Graham,’ Sir Simon said with a laugh. ‘I agree with Miss Browne. You are a poseur. I don’t recall what you have done to further the revolution. Unless . . . he’s writing a book Miss Browne – an attack on the Government, I believe. They must be shaking in their boots – assuming he ever finishes it. Are you near to finishing it, Graham?’

Verity was interested to see that her antagonist seemed unabashed by Sir Simon’s teasing which verged on the cruel. He replied with some dignity, ‘As a matter of fact, I wrote the final words of the final chapter before coming here tonight. It was why I had no time to change, for which I apologize.’

‘Graham! How exciting,’ shrilled Virginia. ‘When may we read it?’

‘Not yet . . . not for a while,’ he said coldly. ‘I read your book on the civil war, Miss Browne. I thought it . . .’ he paused and Verity wondered what insult would follow, ‘very interesting. I have not myself been to Spain but I have talked to many who have and they bear out what you say . . . for the most part.’ He sank back into silence and – a minute or two later – Verity caught him with his eyes closed and wondered if he were asleep.

After they had finished eating, Virginia caught her husband’s eye and rose from her chair. She led the ladies out to ‘powder their noses’, as she put it coyly, leaving the men to ‘put the world to rights over their port’. It was a convention Verity always found absurdly old-fashioned and, normally, rather insulting – as if she might be expected to have nothing to contribute to the post-prandial conversation. She knew, from what Edward had told her, that the conversation was usually unenlightening, very often degenerating into a list of prejudices and bigotries spiced with ugly sexual ‘jokes’ which according to Freud – so Edward had informed her – reflected the English upper-class male’s fear and, possibly, hatred of the female sex.

On this occasion, however, Verity was grateful to leave the dining-room to the men and even flashed Sir Simon a smile as he drew back her chair to facilitate her escape. When they reached the drawing-room, Verity took a cup of coffee and made a beeline for Maud who had flung herself, inelegantly, into an armchair well away from Virginia, Mrs Cardew and Isolde who remained by the coffee tray. She picked up a magazine but Verity could see that, as soon as she decently could, she would slip away to her bedroom. Before she did, Verity was determined to ask the questions she had wanted to put to her ever since she had entered the house. She sat herself down in a chair opposite Maud and stirred coloured coffee sugar into her cup as noisily as she could. Maud pretended not to notice her presence and pressed
The Field
to her face – she was obviously very short-sighted – hoping her persecutor might take the hint and leave her in peace. Unfortunately for Maud, Verity never took hints of this kind.

‘I was so sorry about your father, Miss Pitt-Messanger. Have the police any clue as to who might have done such an awful thing?’

Maud shied like a startled horse. Verity had chosen the direct approach over anything subtle, which Maud might have chosen to ignore or misunderstand.

‘Oh, Miss Browne, I didn’t see you. My father . . . ? I really don’t know. I don’t think so but they tell me nothing.’

‘They have talked to everyone sitting nearby in the Abbey, I suppose? Surely someone must have seen something?’

‘Apparently not. There were lots of people milling around, you know.’

‘And I suppose someone might have come in from the cloisters?’

‘Yes.’

Verity felt she was not getting anywhere. ‘You must be very anxious to find out who . . . hated your father enough to want to kill him. Did he have any enemies?’

Maud looked uncertain and then – to Verity’s dismay – she began to cry. Verity kicked herself. She had been too brutal. ‘I’m so sorry, I did not mean . . . Please, take this.’ She proffered a clean handkerchief.

‘Many enemies,’ Maud answered, surprisingly.

Verity was encouraged. ‘So the police have . . . you know . . . leads to follow up?’

Maud turned to her fiercely. ‘I really don’t see what it has to do with you. My father was a beast of a man. Everyone hated him and I’m glad he’s dead. There, I’ve said it. Now, please leave me alone. The men will be back soon and you can fascinate them instead of persecuting me.’

Verity was abashed and, unwontedly, at a loss for words. She saw Mrs Cardew and Virginia looking at them. She thought bitterly that Edward would have charmed Maud into giving him a complete account of everything that had happened since the murder. Her technique, she appreciated, had got her nowhere. She might as well have hit the poor girl over the head with a rubber truncheon. She had rushed the fence and her horse had refused. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Pitt-Messanger, I have been impertinent. I apologize. I just wanted to help.’

‘Help! Why should you . . .?’ She waved the magazine she held in protest and mopped her nose with the handkerchief. ‘Why should someone like you care about me? Is it some game you’re playing?’

‘How do you mean, “someone like me”? I’m just . . .’

‘Don’t pretend you can’t see how all the men fawn over you and say how clever you are . . . but the looks they give you . . . disgusting. That dress . . . ! Then they look at me. Or rather they don’t look at me unless they have to.’

Verity found herself blushing. It always annoyed her that, though she saw herself as a hard-bitten journalist, she could blush so easily at any personal remark.

‘You think the men . . . ‘ she began but Maud butted in.

‘It was bad enough with Isolde looking so . . . like a Wagnerian goddess but Graham was right. How can you call yourself a Communist when you wear dresses by . . . is it Schiaparelli? . . . and let these rich men drool over you?’

Verity blushed again but tried to hold back her anger. ‘I am sorry if I have offended you in any way, Miss Pitt-Messanger. I was not trying to show off. I just wanted to . . .’

‘Get another scoop?’ With a snort of disgust, Maud got up from her chair, tossed her magazine on the sofa and strode out of the drawing-room.

Verity looked round nervously to find everyone looking at her. Mrs Cardew said gently, ‘Whatever did you say to the poor girl, Miss Browne?’

‘I . . . I was trying to be friendly,’ she said lamely, ‘but I think she thought I was being patronizing. I did not mean to be.’

Virginia laughed. ‘Come over here, Crumbles, and stop looking so forlorn. Maud’s in a bad way. You see her whole life was her father and though she couldn’t make up her mind whether she loved or loathed him – I think both at the same time – she misses him. I imagine it must be a bit like being in chains for years and then, when they are removed, you still feel the weight of them.’

‘What sort of man was her father? He was a great scholar, wasn’t he?’