Something Wicked (28 page)

The sun shone and the breeze was light – nothing to worry rowers or spectators. The stands were already crowded and there was a general feeling of excitement in the air. Harry was in his element on the launch he had hired called, appropriately,
River Life
. Cathy Herold greeted Edward with suspicion and hardly deigned to take Verity’s hand, fearing perhaps that she would catch something from her. As soon as they were on board, Harry made Verity comfortable with a rug over her knees. Edward had exchanged his crutches for a stick but he, too, was glad to sit down. When Harry had cast off, he called Cathy over to help him steer. This seemed to involve a good deal of horseplay and there was much giggling and holding on to one another which made Edward feel rather uncomfortable, as though he and Verity were de trop. The
Henley Hornet
passed them driven by Roderick Black. Harry’s party waved and Mary and the Bruce-Dicks waved back.

He focused his attention on Verity, making sure she did not tire herself or get cold until, rather ungratefully, she asked him not to fuss over her. Fortunately, it was a large launch with a cabin down two or three wooden steps where one could escape the rain or the company. Looking at his programme, Edward could see only two races he particularly wanted to watch – Eton against Radley in the finals of the Ladies’ Plate at midday and, of course, Guy Black in the finals of the Diamond Sculls at two thirty. The American, J.W. Burk, was much fancied but everyone agreed that ‘anything could happen’. Guy had confounded his critics by reaching the finals but he knew it would take a miracle for him to beat Burk. In a way, it took the pressure off him.

After the first race, Harry stopped the engine and knotted the rope round a willow which drooped over the river. Appearing to remember his manners, he came to sit beside Verity. Edward limped towards the prow where Cathy was leafing through the pages of a magazine without much interest. She didn’t seem particularly pleased to be interrupted but commiserated with him politely enough about his leg and asked what it had felt like to kill a man even if it was in self-defence.

‘Cathy,’ Edward admonished her, ‘what’s got into you? Have I done something to offend you?’

‘I’m just fed up with you asking questions and stirring up old scandals. From what Harry has been telling me, you seem to have put James down as the villain of the piece. My husband was a great man in his day – twice what you are,’ she added belligerently.

‘I think he was politically naïve but he was a brave man and he was murdered. I can’t see why you should object to my trying to find out who did it.’

‘No one murdered James,’ she replied icily. ‘You persuaded me to think someone had but I have come to realize that I was wrong to take you seriously. You’re just a trouble-maker and as for Miss Browne, I don’t know what she is doing here. She ought to stay in that clinic and not spread her germs around.’

Edward was angry but then became thoughtful. Who had been getting at her? Had Harry been talking to her about Herold? It seemed likely.

‘I think I know who killed your husband,’ he said in a low voice.

‘You know?’ She looked worried, even dismayed. ‘How could you possibly know? I told you, he wasn’t murdered. He was an ill man and he died from a heart attack.’

Edward treated this with the contempt it deserved and changed the subject. ‘The nurse – how long had she been coming before your husband died?’

‘A fortnight – maybe three weeks. We had another girl before that but she wasn’t a trained nurse.’

‘She didn’t live in?’

‘Mrs Paria?’

‘That was her name?’

‘Yes. April Paria. It was an odd name but she said it was South African – Dutch, I think.’

‘You know she seems to have disappeared?’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Inspector Treacher hasn’t been able to track her down. What did she look like?’

‘I don’t know. Anonymous. Smartly dressed, in her fifties I should say . . . I liked her. She was the no-nonsense type – strong too. She could lift James out of his chair . . . Oh, I say! You don’t think she . . .?’

‘In Latin a bee-keeper is an
apiarius
or, if female,
apiaria
– almost an anagram of Paria.’

‘Are you telling me she murdered James? No, I don’t believe you,’ Cathy said after a pause. ‘I repeat, he wasn’t murdered. I really don’t want to talk about it any more.’

After an hour, during which they watched three races, Edward asked to be put ashore. He needed to stretch his legs. Although his knee was much better and he could bend his leg with relatively little pain, sitting in a launch even as large as Harry’s had made it stiffen up. Verity insisted on accompanying him. Harry seemed relieved to be rid of them – perhaps wanting to have Cathy to himself, Edward thought.

‘You’re sure you’re up to it?’ he asked anxiously for at least the third time as he helped Verity out of the launch. ‘Dr Bladon made me swear not to exhaust you.’

‘I’m feeling very much stronger. I’d like to come, honestly. Anyway, you may need my arm more than I need yours.’

Not wishing to be accused of fussing again, Edward took her at her word and they strolled along the river bank enjoying the colourful scene. He could not walk very fast but then neither did he wish to. He wanted to enjoy the moment. How many more sunny days with Verity at his side were left to him, he wondered? ‘What a couple of crocks we are,’ he said aloud and she squeezed his arm more tightly.

‘We have each other so it can’t be all bad,’ she said with a smile. ‘You know, I do believe I’m happy. Isn’t that amazing? I didn’t think one ever knew one was happy until after it was all over.’

‘And I’m happy too.’ Then, not wishing to tempt fate, he added, ‘So I suppose that means something bad is going to happen.’

‘Pessimist,’ Verity chided him. Suddenly, she stopped and pointed. ‘You see that tent – they’re advertising a photographic exhibition inside. Do let’s have a look. Your friend . . .’

‘George Bushell.’

‘Yes, he took a photo of us on the first day – remember? Let’s see if it’s on show.’

It was dark inside the tent but the photographs fixed to wooden panels were well lit.

‘There we are!’ Verity called out, excitedly. ‘Why, it’s really rather good! I wonder if we can get a copy.’

Edward peered at the print. It was in black and white, of course, but it was so vivid it might have been in colour. The sun had cast an interesting shadow over the boats and punts around them so they seemed in some clever way, highlighted.

‘That’s quite a pretty girl I’m with,’ Edward said at last.

‘And that’s quite a distinguished-looking man beside me,’ she laughed.

A hearty voice hailed them from the back of the tent. ‘Is that who I think it is? Edward, you seem to have been in the wars. What did you do – fall over a tent peg or have you been destroying more of Henley’s heritage?’

‘George!’ Edward greeted his friend warmly. ‘Yes, something like that. I say, did you overhear us saying rude things about your photograph?’

‘It’s very “period”,’ Bushell joked. ‘In two or three years’ time, they’ll be saying this photograph sums up the last regatta before the war.’

‘Don’t joke, Mr Bushell,’ Verity said, shivering.

‘Sorry. But I wasn’t joking. This is history, you know, and I’m recording it. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make you glum. Here, let me give you a copy. I’ve got one somewhere. I’ll just put it in an envelope and then I must get back behind my camera. Won’t be a jiffy.’

As they waited, Verity said, ‘He’s right, isn’t he, Edward? These are the last moments of peace.’

‘Maybe but, according to
The Times
, the Prime Minister is going to Germany to meet Hitler so there may still be a chance of delaying the inevitable. Chamberlain will find some other sop to pacify him. I don’t doubt that he’ll sacrifice Czechoslovakia to save our skins.’

‘But that would be so . . . disgraceful.’

Edward shrugged. ‘Let’s have a look at some of the other photographs while we’re waiting for George. Hey, look at this, V. Do you recognize anyone?’

The photograph showed two men talking earnestly to one another.

‘It’s Jack Amery with Stille,’ Verity shuddered. ‘Did he really try to kill me? It all seems rather fantastic somehow.’

‘I don’t think there can be any doubt of it,’ Edward replied soberly.

‘He was a wicked man,’ she said, remembering the savage killing of her little dog when their paths had first crossed three years earlier. ‘I’m glad you killed him.’

‘Although I didn’t really mean to,’ Edward replied weakly, not much liking to be congratulated as a killer. ‘But you’re right. He was a wicked man who was working for a wicked regime. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” Compared to Major Stille, Macbeth was an innocent.’

Verity moved on, glancing at several other photographs hanging nearby. ‘There’s a lovely one here of Guy Black.’

Edward went over to look. Guy had just finished his first heat and was chatting to his father who looked justly proud. Edward examined the small crowd in the background.

‘Hold on a minute, I’m sure that’s Dr and Mrs Booth – Hermione Totteridge’s sister and brother-in-law. They were the last people I expected to be here. I wonder, V . . . I think we should go back to the launch. I’d really like to talk to them. I might be able to spot them from the river.’

George Bushell reappeared and Edward took the envelope he proffered. ‘Thanks, old chap. I’ll frame it. Can’t stay to chat. I’ve just spotted a photograph of some people I know who I didn’t think would be here,’ he explained. ‘Very good photographs! As you say, the historical record . . . quite invaluable.’

Through his binoculars, Edward saw that Harry’s launch was at the start near Temple Island so he and Verity flopped down in deck-chairs to await its return.

‘You don’t think they are in any danger?’

‘The Booths? Probably not. I just had a moment of panic. I have to admit my tussle with Stille has left me rather nervy. I keep having to tell myself that now he’s dead, we don’t have anything to fear.’

‘But I say, what about Roderick Black’s launch? Isn’t it called the
Henley Hornet
. . .? Oh, I say . . . Bees, flies, hornets . . . You don’t think there will be another murder, do you?’

‘No, it’s just a coincidence but I need to get to the Booths before they do anything silly.’ He smiled but Verity could see that he was worried. ‘Stay with me, will you, V? I need to keep a close eye on you until I’m sure the man who has killed at least four people is behind bars.’

Glancing at his programme, Edward saw they were just in time to see Eton challenge Radley for the Ladies’ Plate. ‘Gosh, we almost missed this. I hadn’t realized what the time was. You’ll enjoy this, V.’

Verity pouted and was about to say she would go and see if she could find Kay Stammers when she changed her mind. If she loved Edward, as she had told herself she did, surely she could be patient and share his pleasure.

It was a few minutes before the two crews were visible through Edward’s binoculars. ‘They’re neck and neck! Come on, Eton!’

As Edward watched the race, Verity watched him. She was surprised and touched to see the years fall away as he stood and cheered his old school. The weariness and strain which had marked his face ever since she had returned to England with tuberculosis were replaced – at least for a minute or two – by boyish enthusiasm and gathering excitement as the two eights fought their way down the course. To cries of ‘Well wowed, Wadley!’ from a stout gentleman on their left and ‘Go for it, Eton,’ shouted even more loudly by Edward, the two eights hove into view.

Suddenly Verity, too, was excited. ‘Come on, Eton,’ she heard herself screaming in a most unladylike manner. She wondered what on earth she was doing egging on a school she abhorred as embodying everything she hated about the English class system. Then she saw the eights, not representing anything but themselves – young men striving their utmost to overcome the opposition – as she constantly strove to overcome the obstacles that stood in her way to becoming a first-class foreign correspondent. She would cheer them for what they were – young men at the peak of physical fitness doing their duty as they might soon be called to do in a much more dangerous world far from the calm waters of the River Thames.

‘Go for it, Eton!’ she screamed again and Edward glanced at her in surprise and delight. The Radley eight were a canvas ahead at the halfway point. The race seemed to be over bar the cheering and flag-waving but then the Radley stroke caught a crab – or, if not quite a crab, slid on his seat and scooped up air instead of water. The Eton cox screamed his lungs out and a couple of minutes later the Eton boat crossed the winning line a whole length ahead of its rivals.

‘That poor boy at stroke,’ Edward said. ‘He’ll never forgive himself for letting his crew down. He’ll dream about that mistake for as long as he lives. I feel for him, I really do.’

Verity was struck by his essential good nature and sympathy for the losers. She knew she would never care a toss how victory was achieved so long as it
was
achieved. She certainly wouldn’t bother herself worrying about the losers but Edward – who so demonstrably wanted Eton to win – had immediately voiced his concern for the feelings of the Radley crew. It was a small thing, but it made her doubly sure that he would never let her down.

He saw her look at him and said, ‘What?’

‘I was just thinking how much I loved you.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Because we won?’

‘No, because you cared about what must be going through the minds of the losers.’

‘Oh, V . . .’ he began and then stopped suddenly. ‘I say, isn’t that Dr Booth over there?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him.’

‘Wait for me here. I’ll just see if I can have a word with him.’

He walked quickly in the direction of the tent to which he thought Dr Booth was making. At first, he could not see him and was turning to go back to Verity when he heard a voice calling him.

At a little table by the tea tent, Violet Booth and her husband were sitting eating sandwiches and drinking lemonade.