A Grave Man

Book 6: Lord Edward Corinth & Verity Browne

by David Roberts

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A murder mystery featuring Lord Edward Corinth and Verity Browne. Verity Browne and Lord Edward Corinth are attending a memorial in Westminster when the service is interrupted by a young woman's desperate cry for help. Too late, they find Maude Pitt-Messanger's father slumped in his seat, stabbed to death with an ancient Assyrian dagger. Verity travels to Swifts Hill, Sir Simon Castlewood's Kent estate, to investigate the murder, where she begins to discover more about Maud's father: the old man was selfish and cruel, and had prevented Maude from marrying the man she loved, making his daughter's life miserable. When Maud herself is stabbed to death with a dagger from Sir Castlewood archaeological collection, Edward and Verity join forces to unmask the killer. However, Verity's growing attraction to young German aristocrat Adam von Trott drives a wedge between the two friends - bringing them both unhappiness and endangering the outcome of their investigation... Praise for David Roberts: 'A classic murder mystery [...] and a most engaging pair of amateur sleuths' Charles Osborne, author of The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie 'A really well-crafted and charming mystery story' Daily Mail 'A perfect example of golden-age mystery traditions with the cobwebs swept away' Guardian

Release date: September 1, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 276

Sample

1

In England, when a great public servant dies, it is customary to hold a memorial service in Westminster Abbey at which his achievements are recalled and his sins forgiven if not forgotten. Death transforms a hated rival into a cherished colleague whose loss is genuinely felt, reminding the survivor of his own mortality. Like the Roman general enjoying his triumph, a slave whispers in his ear, ‘Respice post te, hominem te memento!’ Look behind you and remember you are mortal. If called upon, the mourner composes a panegyric replete with platitudes.

At the Abbey, he removes his top hat with studied dignity, gives his name to the usher and wonders how far down the list it will appear in the following morning’s report in The Times and the Morning Post. He sings an anthem and listens poker-faced to the eulogy. It is not a long service because the congregation is made up of busy and important men whose time is money. As the organ sounds in sombre magnificence he processes out, proud to be ‘one of us’. He feels a stirring of excitement in the knowledge that soon he will be mingling with the high and mighty on equal terms. At the Abbey door, he whispers a few words of comfort in the widow’s ear, gives the eldest boy a firm handshake and pats the youngest on the head and, his duty done, replaces his top hat. He raises his eyes and sees many friends and acquaintances whom he greets with a sad smile and a modest nod of the head. Gradually, back in the world of the living, spirits lighten and his smile broadens. He makes what he hopes are unnoticed efforts to put himself in the way of those higher in rank or in a more exalted office with whom he can speak a few words and be seen to be doing so. It is the way things are done, at least in England.

In the case of Lord Benyon, the economist, writer and government servant, who had been killed when the giant airship, the Hindenburg, had exploded in a ball of fire as it attempted to dock in New Jersey, the situation was a little different. For one thing there was the extraordinary nature of his passing. In the second place Benyon’s only living relative was a sister married to a self-important stockbroker. There was no black-veiled widow or desolate children upon whom the mourners could focus their grief and, though no man is without enemies, Benyon had far fewer than most. Even Montagu Norman, the Governor of the Bank of England and an old sparring partner, admired Benyon’s abilities and liked him as a man though he abhorred his ideas.

The Prime Minister and senior cabinet ministers filled the front pews along with the Court of the Bank of England, the American ambassador, the Provost and Fellows of King’s College, Cambridge, leading British financiers and other dignitaries. There was a certain irony, which Benyon would have relished, that he should be mourned by a political class he had long derided and in a religious service he had been known to describe as ‘hocus-pocus’. For all that, he would surely have been delighted to see so many friends gathered to say their farewells. These friends were a very mixed bag as his interests had extended far beyond politics, economics and business. His wife, Inna, who had died a year before, was a prima ballerina in her youth and had danced for Diaghilev. Many of her friends from the world of ballet had become his friends: dancers and choreographers such as Anton Dolin, George Balanchine and Lydia Lopukhova. His close friends included Sir Thomas Beecham, director of the Royal Opera House, writers and artists such as Virginia Woolf, Morgan Forster and Duncan Grant, as well as actors and theatre directors. Women had loved to confide in him despite his feeble physique, weak eyes hidden behind thick-lensed spectacles and balding head, so it was no surprise to find the Abbey filling up half an hour before the service was due to begin.

It was early August and the great church was almost hot and certainly stuffy. The Hindenburg had been destroyed in May when the Abbey was being decked out for the coronation; it was only now that it had regained its normal sober dignity and was ready to give death its due. The House of Commons was about to rise for the summer recess, and politicians and civil servants were on the point of departing for the grouse moors or to take what many believed would be their final holidays on the Continent before the outbreak of a new European war.

Among the many hundreds who had gathered to pay their respects were Lord Edward Corinth and the journalist, Verity Browne. They had found seats way back in the nave where they could see nothing and hear very little. Verity, as a committed Communist and atheist, normally refused on principle to enter a church but on this occasion had swallowed her convictions out of affection for Benyon. In the short time they had known him, both Edward and Verity had come to look upon him as a dear friend. Edward had acted as his protection officer aboard the Queen Mary on a recent trip Benyon had made to the United States to try to persuade President Roosevelt to fund Britain’s rearmament programme. Benyon had been unsuccessful, as he feared would be the case, but had at least survived an attempt on his life. Furthermore, he was a bad sailor and the ship had not been as stable as Cunard had promised. A storm in the Atlantic had prostrated him and he had declared that on the next occasion he had to visit the States he would travel by air. The Hindenburg had made several safe crossings and its only disadvantage seemed to be that, as an enemy of Fascism, Benyon hated to travel in an airship adorned with the swastika.

The service followed the normal pattern. The Prime Minister read the famous passage from Ecclesiasticus which includes, so aptly for Benyon, the words: ‘Leaders of the people by their counsels, and by their knowledge of learning meet for the people, wise and eloquent . . .’ The Archbishop of Canterbury called him ‘a humane man genuinely devoted to the cause of the common good – radiant, brilliant, effervescent, full of impish jokes.’ Verity found herself digging in her bag for her handkerchief and even Edward found his eyes prickling.

When the service ended, it was twenty minutes before they could even think of making their way to the West Door. Just as the crowd about them thinned and Edward had bent to retrieve his hat from underneath his chair, he heard a shrill cry which seemed to come from a woman who had been sitting a few rows in front of them on the extreme right, close to the entrance to the cloisters. Edward walked into the side aisle and saw that a woman was bending over a man slumped in one of the seats.

Verity had also heard the woman cry out but was too short to see who it was.

‘I say, V, isn’t that Maud Pitt-Messanger – the daughter of the archaeologist? Do you remember, we met her with Benyon once? I hope . . .’

Without finishing his sentence, he walked towards her, Verity in his wake. Two or three other people had also heard the cry and had turned to see what was the matter. Edward found her kneeling in the aisle, her arms around an elderly man half lying in the chair next to the one in which she had been sitting.

‘Miss Pitt-Messanger . . . can I help? It’s Edward Corinth. We met . . . is everything all right?’

‘My father . . . he’s . . . I think he’s fainted.’

Edward saw at once that this was no faint. The old man’s eyes were closed and his face was the colour of parchment. He raised Pitt-Messanger’s limp hand and felt for a pulse. He looked up and saw Verity.

‘Get one of the ushers, will you, V? Quick as you can. We need a doctor but I’m very much afraid . . .’

With the help of several of those who had crowded round, Edward laid the old man on the floor and loosened his collar. It was only then that he noticed the blood which had soaked through Pitt-Messanger’s shirt and stained his coat and trousers. Gently, Edward pulled aside his coat to see where the blood was coming from. He saw with disbelief the handle of a knife sticking out from just below his ribs. The blade had been plunged into his body with such ferocity that it was too deeply embedded to be visible. There was a gasp of horror from those who could see what Edward had revealed.

‘Everyone stand back. No one touch anything,’ he said. He recognized one of those who had helped him move the dead man. ‘Cardew, we need the police. Go to the West Door, will you? I noticed two or three constables on duty as we came in. If you can’t see one immediately, find a telephone and ring Scotland Yard. Ask to speak to Chief Inspector Pride and tell him what has happened.’

The young man disappeared and Edward met the eyes of Miss Pitt-Messanger who had collapsed on to one of the chairs and was being comforted by a woman he did not recognize. As the young woman holding Miss Pitt-Messanger’s hand turned to him, he saw one side of her face had been badly burned, perhaps when she was a child. He looked away, not wishing to embarrass her. Maud was sobbing into a handkerchief and making little moaning noises. He noticed a fleck of red on her glove. He hoped she had not seen the knife. To die in such a way, in such a place, at such a time, was grotesque.

‘I’m afraid your father is dead, Miss Pitt-Messanger.’

‘Has he . . . has he had a heart attack?’ she managed to ask through her sobs.

Edward hesitated. It seemed cruel to tell her the truth but she would have to know what had happened. It could not be hidden from her. ‘I am sorry to say I think your father has been murdered.’

‘Murdered! Why do you say such a thing? It’s not possible.’

‘It ought not to be,’ Edward said gravely, ‘but I am afraid there can be no doubt of it. He has been stabbed and it can only have happened a few moments ago. He is still bleeding from his wound.’

Two days later Edward and Verity were poring over the newspapers which were spread out on the bed. Fenton, Edward’s valet, was taking his annual holiday – in Margate, he had informed his master, where he had a sister who ran a boarding house. Taking advantage of his absence, Verity had ensconced herself in Edward’s rooms in Albany. It was risky because the managers of the apartments would not have approved and nor would most of their friends and relatives. Edward shuddered to think what the Duke of Mersham would say if he knew his younger brother was living with a girl outside the bounds of matrimony. Or rather he would not have said anything. He would merely have harrumphed and looked at him with pained disapproval which would have been worse. Still, it was only for a week and it was fun to pretend to be married.

It was odd to love someone as much as Edward loved Verity and yet not be able to marry her. Neither of them was married to anyone else. There were no financial barriers to matrimony and, most important of all, they loved one another. It was simply that Verity was adamant that she could not feel free within the bonds of marriage. She said it would stifle their love, cause them much pain and would probably end in bitter parting. She once explained to him that marriage would mean being ‘relegated to a camp behind the front’. She doth protest too much, Edward had once thought, but by now he was convinced she meant what she said. It was partly the fault of her job. She was not just a journalist but a foreign correspondent, though she disliked the phrase, thinking it pretentious. She had to be free to go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice. Domestic ties were incompatible with such an occupation which was why right-minded people believed it was a man’s job. A woman ought to stay at home, look after her husband’s comforts and carry his babies.

‘It’s a strange business, isn’t it?’ she said comfortably, reaching over him and taking buttered toast from his plate.

‘What is? Hang on! You’re dripping butter all over The Times. I was just looking to see who had died.’

‘That’s what I mean. Pitt-Messanger was stabbed to death in Westminster Abbey during one of the biggest memorial services in years and yet no one saw it happen and no one has been arrested.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with us,’ Edward said with a shrug.

‘Yes it is,’ she protested. ‘We found him. We called the police. Of course it’s to do with us.’

‘I’m not getting mixed up with it, V, if that’s what you are hinting at. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is. Tomorrow I am going down to Chartwell to talk to Churchill about a job. I’m really feeling quite bucked.’

‘Oh, him,’ Verity said dismissively. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t like him and I wish you weren’t getting so friendly with him. He’s against everything I believe in from the rights of women to . . . the General Strike. He’s not a friend of the people. I’m surprised you can’t see that.’

‘That’s nonsense, V. Once you meet him you’ll change your mind. He’s not perfect – I’m not saying he is – but he’s the only politician who can stand up to the dictators. I’m convinced of it.’

‘Do what you want,’ she said, half joking, half petulant. ‘I don’t care if you prefer a fat, over-the-hill politician to me. Leave me if you must but I thought only cads desert their mistresses when they are . . .’

‘You’re not going to tell me you’re pregnant, are you? That would be wonderful!’ Edward exclaimed in mock delight.

‘Of course not, idiot! I was going to say “when they are in a mood – mistresses, that is – to give themselves to their paramours with wild abandon”.’

‘Sorry and all that,’ Edward said annoyingly, ‘but when my country calls . . .’

‘Pompous ass,’ she giggled, pinching him. ‘Have you taken your Syrup of Figs this morning? You are sounding constipated. Anyway, I don’t care. It so happens I too have an invitation. Do you remember my friend Ginny Waring?’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She’s my only school friend. She was head girl and I worshipped her.’

‘Which school was that?’ Verity had often told him she had attended a number of schools from most of which, it seemed, she had been expelled. One headmistress, exasperated by her having climbed to the top of the art school roof where she had got stuck – ‘for a dare’ she explained when the fire brigade brought her down – had called her ‘a thoroughly bad influence on the younger girls, disruptive and impudent’. Edward had always thought this was a very fair description of Verity and had every sympathy with her many headmistresses.

‘Grove House. I was there for almost three years. Ginny stood up for me when Miss Haddow wanted to throw me out.’

‘Why did she wish to throw you out?’ Edward inquired. ‘Idleness, midnight feasts or was it boys?’

‘If you must know, clever clogs, it was boys or rather one sweet, if spotty, lad from the local grammar. Not that I was doing anything wrong. He had lent me a pullover and I had forgotten to return it.’

‘So you climbed out of the bathroom window and were caught?’

‘Not at all,’ Verity said haughtily. ‘He came, without invitation, and climbed in at the dorm window. It was great fun but one of the girls sneaked. I was hauled up in front of the dragon, as we called Miss Haddow, and only Ginny’s intervention prevented me from being shot out on my ear.’

‘So Ginny what’s-her-name has invited you to stay?’

‘Ginny Waring – Virginia Castlewood as she is now. You must have heard of her. She’s married to the millionaire. They built that house in Kent, just outside Tonbridge. Part of it is what remains of a castle and the rest is very modern. There was an article on it in Country Life. She has a pet mongoose – or do I mean a lemur?’

Edward did remember. Sir Simon Castlewood had inherited a fortune from his father who had supplied the army with uniforms during the war. The father had been one of those hard men who ‘had done well out of the war’, as the saying was, but the son had made a better name for himself as a patron of the arts and sciences. He was said to have a fine picture collection and an even finer library. He supported many charities, notably Earl Haig’s fund for ex-soldiers. He had set up a medical foundation to develop cures for tuberculosis and polio. He had financed several expeditions to the North and South Poles and was something of an explorer and naturalist himself.

Verity never did anything without a purpose and Edward was suspicious. ‘So why this sudden desire to look up an old school friend?’

‘No reason except I haven’t seen her for ages,’ she replied airily, snuggling down beneath the sheets, her appetite for toast and marmalade temporarily sated.

‘Hold on! I’ve just remembered. Didn’t Castlewood underwrite Pitt-Messanger’s excavations in Egypt or somewhere?’

‘That’s right and, as it happens, Maud Pitt-Messanger is staying at Swifts Hill. Ginny has such a kind heart and, when she heard about her father’s death, she scooped her up and took her there to recover and avoid the press.’

‘Really, V, you are incorrigible. You want to investigate . . .’

‘Chief Inspector Pride will never find out who murdered her father, now will he?’

‘We may not like Pride but he is a very competent police officer,’ Edward said sententiously. ‘I have every confidence . . .’

‘Well, I don’t, so there.’

Edward pushed aside the breakfast tray and rolled over on Verity. ‘Stop it, you bully. You’re squashing me.’

‘If only that were possible!’ he retorted. They looked at each other with mutual indignation and then Verity was overtaken by the giggles. ‘Men look so absurd in striped pyjamas, particularly if they are trying to lay down the law.’

‘Oh really? You have experience of men in pyjamas, do you? You jade, you juggler, you canker blossom, you thief of love!’

‘How dare you call me a jade. I don’t even know what it means. Are you calling me a horse?’

‘I’m calling you a bad-tempered and disreputable woman and to prove it . . .’

The plates and newspapers slid on to the floor as Edward caught Verity in his arms. She made inadequate attempts to escape but was soon overcome.

Panting, Edward released her. ‘You’ve got jam on your nose,’ he said, as he kneeled astride her.

‘I surrender, I surrender,’ she cried in mock alarm. ‘Don’t hurt me, you nasty, ugly man. I am thinking of getting another dog to protect me. Ouch! Remember, I’m still an invalid.’

Edward relaxed his grip. She had taken a bullet in her shoulder when the Spanish town of Guernica had been bombed and strafed by the Luftwaffe just a few months before. She had been lucky to survive. The photographer, Gerda Meyer, who was with her, had been killed. She was very much better but still not fully recovered – from the shock as much as from the wound itself. Gently, he turned her on her stomach and stroked the scar, still livid, where the bullet had pierced her. She twisted her head to look at him, for once almost meek. ‘My scar . . . I can’t even see it, damn it. Is it horrible? Does it . . . disgust you?’

He remembered the girl who had comforted Maud Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey. Her scar had spoilt her looks. ‘No, my dearest,’ he said, his voice thick with passion. ‘I love every scar, every scratch on you.’ He bent his head and kissed first her shoulder, feeling the wound with his tongue and then, rolling her over, the little scar on her forehead.

She put her hands to his face, pushing him back so she could look into his eyes. ‘And I love you.’ It went against all her instincts. She had held out against him as long as she could but she did love this man – she was almost sure of it. What was more, she trusted him absolutely, without reservation. She closed her eyes and gave a little cry, perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of protest. He needed no warning to treat her gently. With infinite tenderness he buried himself in her, his eyes never leaving her face. She threw her arms around him and held him to her fiercely as if he alone could protect her from the pain and blot out her memories of Spain.

Afterwards, they lay on their backs smoking until Edward suddenly remembered that they had an appointment with a house agent at eleven. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was already half past nine. Verity had been staying with her friends, the Hassels, in the King’s Road since she had returned from Spain. She had sold her Knightsbridge flat before she left and owned no property in England. She had decided she needed a pied-à-terre in London, even though she was abroad for so much of the time. She did not want anything cosy. She had no wish to make a home for herself. She merely needed somewhere to leave the few possessions she did not want to carry about the world with her. She had settled on an anonymous-looking flat in a new, purpose-built block off Sloane Avenue called Cranmer Court. Before she made a final decision she wanted Edward to see it.

London was beginning to have the air of a forgotten city – Petra perhaps, Edward thought as they stepped out of Cranmer Court on to brown, balding grass. The flat had proved to be light and airy, though expensive. Edward wanted her to look at others but Verity was impatient. ‘What is the point? It suits me and I’ve got the money.’

It was a slight embarrassment to Verity, as a Communist, that she was rich. Her father was a successful barrister renowned for his defence of left-wing causes. She had never liked spending his money but her resolve had weakened as the years passed and, anyway, she was earning herself now. Her employer, Lord Weaver, the owner of the New Gazette, saw her as one of his stars and paid her accordingly. The Daily Worker, for which she also wrote, paid her nothing but her book on Spain published by the Left Book Club had sold well and Victor Gollancz had been after her to write another.

The young man from the agency had been pleased and surprised that the flat had been such an easy sale. When he discovered to whom he had sold it, he had been fulsome. Edward was amused to see how Verity, in the face of frank admiration, managed to display irritation and pleasure at the same time.

It was hotter than ever and the dust spread over everything, painting the leaves on the trees grey and casting a grey veil over Edward’s Lagonda. London was emptying, so it was with some surprise that they bumped into Edmund Cardew whom they had last seen at the Abbey when Edward had dispatched him to summon the police. He was an MP – one of the youngest in the House – and was being talked of as a ‘coming man’. The girl on his arm seemed almost a child. At first sight Edward did not recognize her but then, as she moved her head, he saw the burn scar which had transformed her cheek to rice paper, only partly concealed by the hair which fell about her face. It was she who had comforted Miss Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey.

She proved to be Cardew’s sister Margaret – Maggie as her brother called her. Edward shook her gloved hand and they exchanged a few words about the murder. As they did so, it occurred to him to wonder if the handle of the knife which had killed the old man had been clean of fingerprints. All the ladies attending the memorial service would have been gloved of course but then it was not really a woman’s crime. He reminded himself that the investigation was nothing to do with him. He introduced Verity and explained that she had been buying a flat.

‘Excellent!’ Cardew said. ‘Then you must come and meet my mother. She bought one of the first flats three years ago and is quite the queen of Cranmer Court.’

It was impossible to refuse so Verity and Maggie walked ahead of the two men towards the other side of the block. Cardew said in a low voice so that his sister could not hear, ‘When my father died, just after Maggie was born, my mother was left very badly off. She had to sell Molton – our house in Kent – and move into the gatekeeper’s lodge. Then I began to make a little money and I was able to buy her this flat. She can come up to town and see her friends and I have a place to sleep when the House is sitting. I know she will love to meet Miss Browne. The truth is she gets a bit lonely. She says all her friends are dying off like flies and she loves the young. She was a great friend of Lord Benyon, you know. He was very kind to us when my father died. In fact, I owe him a great deal. When I left Rugby he got me a job with his stockbrokers, Thalberg and May. His brother-in-law, Horace Garton, was a partner in the firm. I don’t know if you ever met him?’

‘I met his sister, Mrs Garton, once very briefly. I liked her.’

‘Between ourselves, she is worth two of him but I shouldn’t say so. Garton was always good to me and I am truly grateful. He has retired now.’

‘And you are a partner?’

‘I am but I may have to give it up. I spend so much time at the House. The Prime Minister has said . . . but you don’t want to hear about me, Lord Edward.’

In contrast to her brother, Maggie was silent. Verity, who had not noticed her in the Abbey, was shocked by her disfigurement and imagined she must be shy. She made up for it by talking rather wildly about her trip on the Queen Mary with Benyon but it was a relief to her when they reached Mrs Cardew’s flat. Edmund’s and Maggie’s mother proved to be a woman of considerable charm who was clearly devoted to her children. She was rather stout and when she embraced Maggie the girl almost disappeared. She emerged laughing and adjusting her hat.

‘Mother, please! This hat cost a fortune! Don’t crush it.’

It was pleasant to see how affectionately they teased the old woman. Edward asked Mrs Cardew about Benyon, explaining his and Verity’s connection.

‘That’s so like Inna,’ she exclaimed when Verity described how Lady Benyon had helped her overcome her ‘block’ when she was writing her book on Spain. ‘She was one of my closest friends but alas she is dead. As soon as Blackie brings me the The Times in the morning before I get up, I read the death notices. I expect to see my own there soon,’ she smiled.

‘Mother!’ Cardew expostulated. ‘You talk as if you are in your dotage. You are only as young as you feel. She has so many friends,’ he said, turning to Verity. ‘Tomorrow you are going down to Swifts Hill, aren’t you, Mother? You always like going there. Do you know the Castlewoods, Lord Edward?’

‘I don’t but, as it happens, Verity will be staying with them at the same time as you are there, Mrs Cardew.’

‘My dear, how wonderful,’ the old lady said, smiling at her. ‘Perhaps we can travel together. There’s a train from Victoria at 3.28 that will get us to Swifts Hill in time for tea. But how silly of me . . . you don’t want to be lumbered with an old woman like me.’

‘Not at all,’ Verity said. ‘I would very much like to come with you if I may. The truth is I haven’t seen Ginny since we left school and I am a little scared of meeting her husband.’

‘Oh, Simon’s a charmer. You will get on very well with him. He has an eye for a pretty girl. Not that I am saying he is other than devoted to Virginia . . .’

‘That’s settled then,’ Cardew said. ‘It would be a weight off my mind, Miss Browne, if you would accompany my mother. It’s a long journey and she has not been well . . .’

‘Oh pish, Edmund. I have just had a summer cold which I have not been able fully to throw off. Dear Virginia swears that the air at Swifts Hill – so much cleaner than here in London – will clear it up i. . .