Dangerous Sea

Book 4: Lord Edward Corinth & Verity Browne

by David Roberts

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A murder mystery featuring Lord Edward Corinth and Verity Browne. 1937. Lord Benyon is on board the Queen Mary, bound for New York, where his mission is to persuade President Roosevelt to supply Britain with arms and money, if it comes to war with Germany. Those who want him to fail will stop at nothing to prevent him from reaching an agreement with the American President. So, when Lord Benyon refuses police protection, Special Branch enlists the help of Lord Edward Corinth: he is to board the ship and keep an unofficial eye on Benyon. Verity Browne is aboard the Queen Mary too, going to America on behalf of the Communist Party to liaise with sympathisers to their cause. There is indeed a murder on board, but not that of Lord Benyon: the victim is a right-wing Senator from North Carolina. The obvious suspect would be Warren Fairley, an African-American singer, actor, and communist. But the Senator has enraged many of his fellow passengers, such as Sam Forrest, the union organiser with whom Verity is so taken... Praise for David Roberts: 'The plot is both intricate and enthralling, like Poirot on the high seas, and lovingly recorded by an author with a meticulous eye and huge sense of fun' Michael Dobbs, author of Winston's War 'A classic murder mystery [...] and a most engaging pair of amateur sleuths' Charles Osborne, author of The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie 'A perfect example of golden-age mystery traditions with the cobwebs swept away' Guardian

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 212

Sample

‘Damn and blast it! Oh sorry, Connie, but, hang it all, just look at it!’

It was late February and London was cold, wet and miserable. After the warmth and colour of the auditorium, Bow Street seemed distinctly uninviting. Peering out through the rain from the portico of the Opera House, Lord Edward Corinth wondered how he would ever locate the Rolls. He grasped his companion by the arm and said, ‘I don’t think Page will find us in this mêlée. Perhaps I ought to go and explore.’

As he finished speaking, however, the Duchess pointed. ‘Look! Over there, Ned. There he is.’

Somehow, the chauffeur had found his way to the front of the queue of taxis and cars, and Edward, relieved and admiring, wondered if he had had to resort to bribery or if it was sheer force of personality. Page approached them holding a large umbrella open above him. Edward gratefully released his sister-in-law into his charge and prepared to follow but a tap on the shoulder arrested him.

‘Lord Edward – it is you, isn’t it?’

The man who addressed him was small, narrow in the shoulders and altogether unprepossessing. His fraility was emphasized by his bald head, wispy ginger moustache and weak blue eyes which nevertheless glowed brightly from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He had raised his black silk hat to greet Edward and now replaced it.

‘Lord Benyon, how are you?’ Edward responded, with genuine warmth. Benyon might resemble an undernourished bank clerk from one of the novels of H.G. Wells but he was, in fact, a distinguished economist and one of the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s trusted advisers. It was not a total surprise to see him at Covent Garden because Edward knew he was a close friend of Sir Thomas Beecham, the director of the Opera House.

‘That was my sister-in-law you saw being escorted to the car. May we give you a lift or have you a car of your own?’

‘That’s very good of you, Lord Edward,’ said the little man. ‘If it’s not taking you too much out of your way, I confess we would be very glad of a lift. I don’t fancy my chances of finding a taxi in this weather. I live in Gerald Road. Do you know it? Almost next to the police station.’

‘Of course. Noel Coward lives in Gerald Road, doesn’t he? I went to a party there once, with a friend of mine who was rather a good singer.’

‘Yes, indeed. Not that, I’m afraid, we see anything of him. He moves in much more glamorous circles. Oh, forgive me, may I introduce my sister, Mrs Garton?’

Edward raised his hat to a lady so tightly wrapped in her cloak he could only see a pair of blue eyes above a rather pleasant smile, and then looked anxiously after Connie. ‘Very good. Let us sally forth. I don’t know how long Page can defend his position from the mob.’

A girl in a threadbare dress and a rain-sodden hat thrust a bunch of violets at him. Irritated by this new delay, he moved his arm to brush her aside and was immediately ashamed. How could his minor inconvenience compare with what this girl had to endure? He fished in his trouser pocket and came up with a half-crown which he pressed in the girl’s hand. Her gratitude made him even more embarrassed and he saw Benyon smiling.

‘As my friend, Verity Browne, would say, these girls don’t need charity. They need education and a proper job,’ he said sheepishly.

They elbowed their way through the crowd which continued to stream out of the Opera House. They ducked and dodged as umbrellas were opened all about them, spokes prodding spitefully. Water dribbled off black brollies on to shawls and capes, down necks, ruining top hats and making patent-leather shoes glisten. Women, clutching their evening bags in one hand and holding their long dresses clear of the wet pavement with the other, protested in shrill squeals. The scent of rotting vegetables from the market made Edward momentarily nauseous.

When they reached the sanctuary of the Rolls, Connie was already ensconced in the back but made no objection to taking Benyon and his sister home. Connie had not met him before but they had many friends in common and were soon at ease with one another. Edward relaxed and, as the car turned into the Strand, prepared to devote himself to Mrs Garton.

‘What did you think of the opera?’ he asked her. ‘Wasn’t Erna Berger a magnificent Queen of the Night?’

‘It was heaven. The Magic Flute is a favourite of mine, Lord Edward, and Erna Berger . . . how could anyone sing with such purity of tone? I really can’t find the right words without resorting to cliché. And Tiana Lemnitz . . . her Pamina! I believe we were privileged to hear it.’

Edward said, rather mischievously, ‘So what do you think it’s all about? I mean, not that absurd Masonic abracadabra stuff. What’s it really about?’

‘Human cruelty,’ she replied rather surprisingly. ‘Beneath all that heavenly music, there is the story of harsh and unjustified punishment. It’s hardly surprising Pamina tries to kill herself.’

Benyon, seeing Edward was rather taken aback by the seriousness of his sister’s remarks, said, ‘Well, we must enjoy it while we can. It may not be a privilege we will have again, to listen to such singing. Sir Thomas was saying to me the other day that he was literally bankrupting himself putting on what the press are calling a Coronation Season. Unless he can find money from somewhere, it will have to be his last.’

‘Oh, but that’s terrible!’ Connie exclaimed. ‘We can’t let Covent Garden close. Can’t the government do something? Surely, London must have an opera house. If the Italians can fund La Scala and that’s not even in Rome . . .’

‘Maybe, but the government puts guns before music.’

‘Some would say about time too,’ Edward put in drily.

‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ Connie said stoutly. ‘My son, Frank, told me Sir Thomas had been at Eton not long ago and it had been a revelation. Let me see, what was it they played? I remember, Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. Frank said it was better than the record he has of Toscanini. Of course music is more important than guns, Ned.’ She shivered. ‘Though I’m not saying we don’t need guns, more’s the pity.’

There was a silence and then Edward said, with an effort, ‘I was very sad to hear about Inna. I would so much have liked to come to the funeral but unfortunately we were out of the country . . . Verity and I. Your wife was a very remarkable woman, if you will allow me to say so. I don’t know exactly what it was she said to Verity but it had a great effect on her. She had some sort of block writing her book on Spain but Inna showed her how to overcome it. I honestly believe she is the only woman Verity admired unreservedly.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Benyon said, visibly moved. ‘It was a great blow to me, though of course we knew the cancer wouldn’t . . . give her very long. Perhaps you think it wrong of me to be at the opera within two months of her death but . . .’ Mrs Garton leant over and took his hand, ‘when she was dying, she begged me to go on doing what she knew I had to do to keep sane – music, going to all my ridiculous meetings and committees. She knew that if I stopped and . . . gave way, I would never be able to survive. Inna was my life, Lord Edward, but I feel her with me now, by my side . . .’ He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Forgive me for talking this way. It must be Mozart. He sometimes has that effect on me. Now, tell me, you were in Spain over Christmas, were you not? I read something about it in the paper.’

‘Yes,’ the Duchess interjected. ‘Frank gave us all a fright by running away from school to join the International Brigade.’

‘And Verity and I went to Spain to fetch him back,’ Edward said grimly. ‘We caught up with him on Christmas Day just outside Madrid. He was manning a machine-gun, would you believe?’ He could hardly keep the admiration out of his voice. ‘Anyway, we dragged him back by the scruff of his neck and he hasn’t stopped complaining since. He’s resolutely refused to go back to school so, at the moment, he’s sitting at home in a deep sulk while we try to think what we are going to do with him.’

‘I see,’ Benyon said meditatively. ‘Look, what are you doing at lunch tomorrow? I have a ghost of an idea but I need to mull it over and talk to someone first to see if it’s practical.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Connie said. ‘Of course you’re free tomorrow, aren’t you, Ned?’

A little nettled at being taken for granted, Edward had to agree. The car drew up in Gerald Road, a narrow street of substantial houses with a small police station at one end endearingly decorated with window boxes. When Page opened the car door for them, Benyon said, ‘Please don’t get out, Lord Edward. The Athenaeum at one o’clock? Excellent!’ Turning to Connie, he added, ‘Thank you so much for the lift, Duchess. I must tell you, my wife thought very well of Lord Edward and my dear Inna was a shrewd judge of character.’

The Athenaeum, in Pall Mall, was just a five-minute walk from Brooks’s, Edward’s club in St James’s Street, but in atmosphere it was a world away. Brooks’s had its share of members who slept the days away in the deep, leather armchairs but these were by no means the majority. Members of Brooks’s were, for the most part, aristocrats, diplomats and politicians – Tories to a man, despite the club’s Whig origins. At the Athenaeum, Edward anticipated bumping into bishops, judges and senior civil servants. The thought did not excite him. As he entered the atrium with its sweeping staircase leading to the great rooms on the first and second floors, he was as usual put in mind of a cathedral and he could not prevent himself grinning when the first person he saw, after he had given his name to the porter, was the Bishop of Worthing, Cecil Haycraft, whom he had met at Mersham Castle.

‘Lord Edward! I didn’t know you were a member, but how nice to see you. How is your brother, the Duke? I heard that he made a very good speech in the Lords on the Education Bill.’

‘Thank you. He is well but, as to my being a member here, I have to disappoint you. I am just a guest.’ He decided to tease the Bishop who rather prided himself on being modern and unstuffy. ‘I am surprised that you are a member. Isn’t it a little . . . old-fashioned for a man of your advanced views?’

The Bishop blushed and Edward repented his impertinence. ‘I’m just joking – forgive me.’

The Bishop’s face cleared. ‘Of course, and you, Lord Edward, how are you and how is that delightful friend of yours, Miss Browne?’

There was the very slightest sting in the inquiry. Verity Browne was everything the Athenaeum feared and despised. She was a woman and, if that was not bad enough, she was a Communist and, worst of all, a journalist. And yet, for some reason which he could not quite define, Edward found more satisfaction in her company than in that of any of the women in his social circle. The society women he met at dinners and at balls – though, as a matter of fact, he no longer went to balls – bored him.

Verity did not bore him. She was elusive. She was infuriating. She liked to make fun of his preconceptions and prejudices. She accused him of belonging to a class which history had decided to consign to the dustbin and she was consistently disparaging of his efforts to be a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. Despite all of this – and to his friends’ amusement and puzzlement – he found himself completely in her thrall. Perhaps it was that she did not toady to him, the son of a duke, as so many of the women in his set appeared to do. Perhaps it was because she forced him see the world from a different perspective, or perhaps it was just something ‘chemical’, as the modish phrase had it. On several occasions he had been on the point of proposing marriage to her but for one reason or another he had never got the words out. He knew she was more than likely to say no, so there was some relief in not having forced the issue.

Verity was aware of Edward’s feelings for her – how could she not be? – and sometimes thought she reciprocated them. She certainly liked and admired him. His courage, his intelligence, his enterprise and – there was no getting away from it – his social position made him attractive and she had come to depend on him in moments of crisis. If only he would be satisfied to be her lover. It wasn’t just that, as a committed Communist, it was against all her principles to marry into the aristocracy. If she decided she wanted to do something perverse, she would not be put off by the derision of her comrades in the Party. No, she genuinely felt she was unsuited to marriage. Her strongest emotions were political rather than personal, or that was what she told herself. She was a foreign correspondent – a demanding and occasionally dangerous job which she had been told often enough was man’s work. And there was war everywhere, in Spain and soon throughout Europe. A great battle with Fascism was looming and she was determined to be part of it. For the forseeable future, there was going to be no chance that she could be fulfilled by building a cosy nest for her man and bringing his babies into the world. She did not like babies or anything which restricted her movements. She was ready to accept she was selfish but at least she wasn’t cruel enough to marry a man and lead him a dog’s life. If there was one thing upon which she prided herself it was being honest.

‘Verity is well. She has just completed a book on the war in Spain, for the Left Book Club. I am sure you are a subscriber.’

The Bishop was not sure if he were again being teased and finally decided he was. ‘I am indeed a subscriber. You have me in your power, Lord Edward. If it came to the notice of the club secretary, I would probably be drummed out.’

He smiled and Edward liked him for it. Further discussion was cut short by the appearance of Lord Benyon on the staircase above them.

‘I thought it might be easier to talk confidentially in one of the card rooms and then have lunch, if that’s all right with you.’

Benyon ushered him into a small room redolent of cigars. Two card tables, covered in green felt, stood abandoned in one corner and on a horsehair sofa opposite sat Major Ferguson.

‘I gather you two know each other,’ Benyon said.

Edward nodded and took Ferguson’s outstretched hand. He had met the Major a few weeks previously and knew him to be one of those shadowy policemen whose authority was not to be questioned and whose sphere of operations was wide but amorphous. Special Branch had been set up during the Fenian troubles of the 1880s but was now responsible for state security which, according to Verity, in practice meant harassing the Communist Party while tacitly approving Sir Oswald Mosley’s activities. Edward had no idea if this was true or merely leftwing paranoia.

Major Ferguson was not physically impressive. He was shorter than Benyon who was himself not much above five feet. He wore a bristly military moustache, not unlike the Führer’s. He was almost bald. His brown eyes were masked by spectacles thick enough to suggest his sight was very poor. He was saved from the instant anonymity he no doubt fostered by a scar above his right eye.

‘Lord Edward!’ Ferguson exclaimed, pretending for no reason Edward could imagine that bumping into him like this was just some happy accident. ‘Much has happened since we last met.’

He was referring to the Abdication of the King and the murder of two people connected with him. ‘Your investigation was commendably thorough and you got to the bottom of it all with the minimum of fuss. Congratulations.’ He shook Edward’s hand with unexpected vigour.

‘Very kind of you but . . .’

‘But what am I doing here? Shall I tell him, Lord Benyon, or will you?’

‘You go ahead.’

‘Right you are.’ Ferguson was playing the hearty ‘good fellow’ you might meet on a racecourse but Edward was not deceived. This man, despite his insignificance, was dangerous. ‘Cigarette?’

Edward was about to take one and then remembered Ferguson favoured a particularly noxious Egyptian brand. Ferguson laughed to see him hesitate. ‘I had a small bet with myself that you’d remember.’ He replaced his cigarette case in his breast pocket and they all sat down.

‘Major Ferguson hasn’t got long. He won’t lunch with us so I knew you wouldn’t mind if we disposed of our bit of business before eating,’ Benyon said apologetically.

Edward nodded, rather bemused. ‘Business? What business?’

‘Not business exactly,’ Ferguson said airily. ‘A week from now Lord Benyon is going to the United States ostensibly to accept an honorary degree from New York’s Columbia University. He is also giving two lectures – one to the New York Press Club and another to a group of influential businessmen. He then goes on to Washington and will have a meeting with Mr Lauchlin Currie, the President’s chief financial adviser, and will give two more lectures there before returning home.’

‘I see. And how does that . . .?’

‘Affect you?’ Ferguson had a habit of completing people’s sentences. ‘I’ll tell you, but I need hardly say that this is all in the strictest confidence.’

‘Except certain people already seem to know!’ Benyon broke in.

‘Yes. There’s a leak somewhere right enough, at the very top of government, but we haven’t yet put our finger on who the wagging tongue might be. Anyway, Lord Benyon has a much more important object in going to Washington than giving a few lectures, interesting though they will no doubt be,’ he said, smiling insincerely at Benyon. ‘The real purpose of the trip is a private meeting with President Roosevelt and two of his closest advisers. The Prime Minister has, as you know, begun to strengthen our armed forces in the light of the international situation . . .’

‘Too little and too late!’

‘Probably, Lord Edward,’ Benyon agreed, ‘but there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. The fact is that millions of pounds are being spent on rearmament but Britain is no longer the financial power it used to be. Neville Chamberlain – and, whatever I think of him as a human being, he’s a sound man to have as Chancellor of the Exchequer – has said that the fifteen hundred million pounds the government plans to spend on the Navy and the Army in the next five years is almost certainly inadequate. The Chancellor will have to raise taxes and borrow at least two hundred million. That’s not going to be easy. Most people are quite unaware of it but, to be blunt, Britain is bankrupt, so far as a country can go bankrupt. Most of our foreign investments had been disposed of by 1918 and it’s little more than sheer bluff that we can sit as equals at the same table with our North American friends.’

‘And your object is to borrow money off the United States?’

‘Beg, borrow or steal,’ Benyon said emphatically. ‘We cannot fight another war without American financial support. Roosevelt has made it plain that the United States will not come in on our side if there is a war. Fifty thousand “doughboys” were killed on the Western Front. It may not be many compared to our losses but American public opinion is absolutely firm in its opposition to any policy other than isolationism. No more young Americans will die on the battlefields of Europe.’

‘I understand and I wish you good fortune, Benyon. You have clearly got a Herculean task ahead of you but I don’t see how I can be of any assistance.’

‘We have it on good authority,’ Benyon went on as if Edward had not spoken, ‘that the German government knows the real purpose of my visit and Major Ferguson says they will do anything . . . anything to ensure its failure.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We have definite information that they would not stop at murder,’ Ferguson elaborated.

‘Oh really, Major! Are you asking me to believe that agents of the German Reich would resort to murder to stop Lord Benyon reaching Washington? With respect, surely that is pure John Buchan.’

‘Not at all!’ Ferguson said a little huffily. ‘Our agent in the German Chancellery is adamant that this threat is to be taken seriously and his information, gained at great personal risk, is not to be dismissed lightly.’

Edward felt himself reproved. ‘Well, I am sorry, but you must admit it seems preposterous. The new Germany is not to my taste and I have been convinced for some time that war is inevitable but surely no European government will resort to murder. They are not a bunch of thugs.’

‘But that is just what they are, Lord Edward,’ Ferguson said fiercely. ‘Hitler has never had any compunction in murdering even his closest associates when they have outlived their usefulness. Think of the Night of the Long Knives in June 1934. Röhm and all his Brownshirts were murdered at a word from their Führer. You have heard of these prison camps they have set up? There’s one near Munich about which we are beginning to hear frightful stories. Without trial, without possibility of appeal, the Nazis imprison their enemies in these places and most are never heard of again.’

‘Jews . . .’ Edward began.

‘Not only Jews. Communists – anyone who causes them any trouble.’

‘And the German public knows about this?’

‘They know something of it but it is dangerously “unpatriotic” to object . . . to speak out in defence of the country’s “enemies”.’

‘I am not naive about the Nazis, Major Ferguson. I do understand what you are saying but to put it another way – and I am not meaning to belittle Lord Benyon’s mission – would they bother to attempt to kill him? Are there not many more obvious . . . targets?’

‘I don’t think you fully understand, Edward.’ Benyon unconsciously dropped into an intimacy which his listener considered a compliment. ‘My mission is of the utmost importance. If war was declared tomorrow, we might stave off defeat for a week, a month or – at the most optimistic estimate – three months. We cannot win – we cannot survive – without American aid.’

Benyon was deadly serious and a cold shiver ran down Edward’s spine. ‘The French?’ he offered up.

Benyon was contemptuous. ‘A “busted flush”, as our American friends would say. I believe they could not withstand a German invasion even as long as we could. They have no English Channel to “serve it in the office of a wall”.’

‘But I still don’t see how I come into this. I am flattered you have taken me into your confidence but surely, Ferguson, you have Lord Benyon protected?’

‘On British soil Lord Benyon has protection day and night but out of England . . .’

‘How are you travelling to the States, Benyon?’ Edward asked.

‘On the Queen Mary.’

‘That is almost the same as being on British soil.’

‘Not so, Lord Edward,’ Ferguson said. ‘We have a passenger list but who is to say if it is accurate or complete? The Queen Mary carries some seven hundred First Class passengers and an equal number in the other two classes. Lord Benyon will keep himself to himself as far as is possible without arousing comment but there is always a chance . . .’

‘. . . someone might take a pot shot at me.’

‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,’ Edward quoted. ‘I have always considered that to be a particularly insidious lie.’

‘Sweet and honourable to die for one’s country?’ Benyon said thoughtfully. ‘But don’t forget that Horace’s next line, if I remember it aright, is mors et fugacem persequitur virum – Death hunts down the man in flight.’

‘Our agent believes that it is on the ship they are most likely to attempt to . . . do their dirty business.’

‘But, Ferguson, you can surround him with your people on board.’

‘It is not that easy, Edward,’ Benyon said earnestly. ‘The difficulty is that I do not wish to draw attention to my mission. If it is to succeed, secrecy is of the essence. If the press were to get hold of the real reason for my trip, it would be a disaster. Our enemies would make hay with our obvious weakness and the American public would imagine they were about to be duped by “perfidious Albion”.’

‘One of my men will pose as Lord Benyon’s manservant,’ Ferguson said, ‘but what we really need is someone who can mingle easily with the other First Class passengers and keep an eye out for any potential threat.’

‘And you want me to be your homme de confiance?’

‘Don’t be offended,’ Benyon said hurriedly. ‘It would be a great pleasure for me to have you on the Queen Mary as my guest – or rather the government. . .