Something Wicked

Book 8: Lord Edward Corinth & Verity Browne

by David Roberts

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A murder mystery featuring Lord Edward Corinth and Verity Browne Returning from Prague with suspected tuberculosis, Verity Browne checks into a private clinic on Henley-on-Thames - the perfect place for her new fiancé, Lord Edward Corinth, to keep an eye on her. While Verity recuperates at the clinic, Edward is called to investigate a series of murders. Edward's dentist, Dr Eric Silver has been found murdered, shortly after sharing with Edward his suspicions about the deaths of three of his elderly patients. Dr Silver thinks the three deaths have an entomological connection: General Lowther had had a heart attack drinking a wine called Clos des Mouches; Hermione Totteridge, a well-known gardener, had been poisoned by the new insecticide with which she had been experimenting; and James Herold had been stung to death by his bees. Edward's investigation comes to a thrilling climax during what many believe will be the last Henley Royal Regatta before a new European war, and both Edward and Verity are threatened by someone, or something, wicked. 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: June 5, 2018

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 224

Sample

Prologue

James Herold looked out of the drawing-room window towards his beloved apiary. He was too lame, too weak, too feeble to look after the bees himself. Since his first heart attack he had found even walking difficult. His lungs seemed made of metal, each little breath an effort of will. And this for a man who, in his twenties, had run a mile in four and a half minutes and had climbed the Matterhorn. This was a living death.

But who was that out near the hives? Watkins? No, he had gone into town to get the mower mended. He called to his wife, his voice thin and reedy, but remembered she had gone shopping. And his nurse – where was she? Of course, it was her day off. He struggled out of his armchair, reached for his stick and stumbled out into the hall. He had trouble with the side door. It was stuck and he tugged on it petulantly. It sprung open, almost knocking him backwards. A sense of urgency, almost panic, seized him. The sunlight blinded him but he forced himself on. He had the idea that he was late for an appointment. There was a meeting he had half-forgotten but which it was absolutely necessary he attend.

He stopped, leaning on his stick, panting heavily. He wiped the sweat off his brow and wished that he had put on his old straw hat to cover his naked head. He shaded his eyes with his hand. Was it Watkins? He did not think it could be. This man seemed taller and surely broader in the chest. Watkins was a weedy fellow whom he had always despised but had to put up with. Good with the bees – he must be fair – but not strong. Whoever it was in Watkins’ smock beckoned to him across the iridescent grass. He thought for a moment he almost recognized the man but he could not be sure. He wore gloves thick as a wicket-keeper’s. His legs were encased in heavy wellington boots. His head was covered by a wide-brimmed hat from which hung a veil. Herold passed his hand over his hairless skull. A drone began in his head like insects nesting. Was it his hat the man was wearing?

He shuffled across the lawn, so closely cut but a jungle to a man in his condition. Then his heart began to race. He saw the man go over to one of the hives and begin to shake it. It was a heavy wooden structure but it began to move on its brick base and he could hear, quite distinctly, the bees buzzing, angry at being disturbed. Herold gestured to the man to stop. What he was doing was madness – vandalism. He wanted to shout to him to desist but he could not find the breath. He tried to walk faster and his shuffle became almost a trot. He was now less than a hundred yards away. What was the man doing? He would have the hive over if he wasn’t careful. Why, there it went! Now the man had moved to another hive and was wrenching that over too.

Suddenly the hum became a roar and a dark cloud of bees poured out of the despoiled hives looking for their enemy. The man in the bee-keeper’s costume began to walk purposively towards him. It was only then that Herold realized the danger he was in. He turned and tried to run but missed his footing and his stick spun away from between his legs. He lay on the ground like an insect helpless on its back and looked up. The man lifted his veil and Herold recognized his nemesis. He saw in the face of the god his own death and knew that this was murder. The bees covered every inch of his flesh. They masked his eyes and left their hooked stings in his eyelids. He put his hands to his face to try to scrape them off but he was too weak. The bees coiled about his head like writhing snakes to make a ludicrous wig. He understood that they had been sent to take him with them into that other world beyond anger and pain. And he was not ungrateful. The venom from a thousand stings stopped his heart and ended his suffering. He had, after all, made his meeting and found that his appointment had been with death.

1

‘Wider . . . open wider. I can’t get at it if you won’t open wide.’

Lord Edward Corinth was Mr Silver’s last patient. He had told the receptionist she could go early so they were alone in the surgery. The drill buzzed like an angry wasp as the dentist probed the cavity. Edward’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the arms of the chair. He had faced danger in his time – even dodged a bullet or two – but this was worse, much worse. He had had a horror of the dentist’s chair ever since his tenth birthday when his mother had promised him a treat. He had set out joyfully, his hand in hers, on a long-anticipated visit to the circus. They did go to the circus but, traitorous woman, not before he had been unsuspectingly taken to a room in Wigmore Street, placed in a black chair and attacked by a man in a white gown. Never again did he trust his mother. He had forgiven her – of course he had – but from that day forward he was suspicious of any promise of future delight. There was always going to be a catch. There would always be a worm in the bud.

Take the news that Verity Browne, his fiancée – how he loved to use that word – was returning to London. He had heard from his friend Lord Weaver, the proprietor of the New Gazette and the employer of the woman who had so recently and unexpectedly promised to be his wife, that she was coming home after only a few weeks in Prague as the paper’s correspondent in that troubled city. His heart had leapt with delight but his joy was quickly soiled by suspicion.

‘Why, Joe? What’s the matter?’

‘She hasn’t wired you? Probably didn’t want you to fuss. The fact is she collapsed at some official dinner. The doctor thinks she has an ulcer but there’s just a chance it might be . . . you know, TB.’

Tuberculosis! The word fell on his ears like earth on a coffin.

‘TB! Oh, my God! I told her she couldn’t go on living such a rackety life and not get ill. When she came back from Vienna she was exhausted. She could hardly eat anything. I told her she should see a doctor but she said she was just tired.’

He blamed himself bitterly for not having frogmarched her into his doctor’s surgery and insisted that she have a thorough check-up, but Verity was not easy to compel. Now he thought about it, he realized she must have suspected she was not well before she went to Prague but had refused to admit it.

When he collected her at Croydon Airport, his attempts to disguise his anxiety had been unsuccessful. Her skin was an unhealthy grey and her eyes were dull. She had insisted on walking to the customs hall but, when they reached the Lagonda, she had given up any pretence that she was all right and sat slumped beside him, uncharacteristically silent, her eyes closed. He had put her to bed in her flat in Cranmer Court and summoned his doctor. Verity had never consulted a doctor – never needed to – and had no name to suggest. Dr Clement had taken one look at her and called an ambulance. She was now in the Middlesex Hospital undergoing tests. If she was seriously ill she must let him take care of her, he thought grimly and hated himself for thinking it.

When Mr Silver had finished and removed the cotton wool from his mouth, Edward said, ‘I had forgotten how much I hated that.’ He rinsed his mouth, feeling the new filling with his tongue. ‘Am I making a fuss or do you find most of your patients hate putting themselves at your mercy? It’s something about lying so helpless in your chair and having to watch as you fit a new head to the drill. I know, rationally, that you are going to take away the pain in my tooth but every nerve in my body is telling me to make a run for it.’

Mr Silver did not seem to hear him and Edward saw that he was preoccupied. Instead of reassuring him that he was no more of a coward than other men, he said, ‘You remember I told you I wanted to talk to you about something . . . to consult you?’

‘Of course, fire away.’ Edward hoped that this wasn’t going to be embarrassing. Was he having trouble with his wife? No, he remembered Silk had no wife. His business then . . .?

‘I don’t really know how to say this. It seems so absurd.’

‘Get it off your chest, man,’ Edward urged him. He wanted to go to the hospital – sit beside Verity and feed her grapes. She hated hospitals and was a bad patient. She would need a lot of support in the coming weeks.

‘Well, the fact of the matter is . . .’ Mr Silver hesitated. ‘You know about murder, don’t you? I mean, you can recognize it?’

‘What an odd question, Silver. I think I’d know if someone’s been murdered or not. It’s very rare, you know – murder.’ Edward suddenly felt uneasy and stopped thinking about Verity. ‘Who’s been murdered?’

‘No one – or rather no one seems to think it might be murder.’

‘Silver – you’re not making any sense. You think there’s been a murder but nobody else thinks so? Is that it?’

‘Three murders.’

‘Three!’ Edward was disbelieving.

‘Three of my patients. No, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill them. James Herold was killed by his bees. Hermione Totteridge was poisoned by the spray she was using to kill her greenfly and Sir Ernest drank flies and died.’

‘There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. Do you think she’ll die?’ The rhyme came unbidden to Edward and he stifled the urge to laugh. ‘Three deaths connected with insects? Is that it?’

‘Well, quite. It sounds absurd, I know, and of course the police refuse to make the connection.’

Edward very much wanted to get away but he had known Eric Silver for almost twenty years and felt he owed it to him to hear him out. ‘You say they were all patients of yours?’

‘Yes, though I had not seen Herold for five years.’

‘Herold? The mountaineer?’

‘That’s right. He was always so sure he would die on a mountainside. That’s what he wanted, so when he was diagnosed with heart disease . . .’

‘I remember reading his obituary. There was something odd about his heart attack, wasn’t there?’

‘He was stung to death.’

‘So that’s what you meant when you said he was killed by his bees! It’s coming back to me. I read a report in the New Gazette. He could hardly walk but had somehow got among his hives and the bees swarmed.’ Edward shuddered. ‘They said, with his weak heart, he would have died almost instantaneously.’ He had a thought. ‘You don’t suppose it was suicide? I mean, he might have wanted to end his life and thought this was a way of doing it relatively painlessly. If I had been as active as he was, I wouldn’t want to drag out a miserable existence imprisoned in my armchair.’

He spoke with conviction. He had occasionally wondered what he would do if he were crippled in some way or caught some awful disease. He thought once again of Verity and the urge to go to her was almost overwhelming.

‘That’s what the coroner believed,’ Mr Silver said, ‘but to spare the widow he was able to say it was an accident.’

‘There was no note or anything?’

‘No suicide note but there was an unexplained piece of paper stuffed in his trouser pocket.’

‘Was there something written on it?’

‘Buzz buzz.’

‘Buzz buzz? That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘In his handwriting?’

‘It was in capital letters but his wife was almost certain it wasn’t his writing. It’s difficult to tell with block capitals. It was his pen, though. A Parker he always used. It was beside his body when he was found.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I went to the inquest. He was an old friend.’

‘Where did he live?’

‘Just outside Henley . . . on the river.’

‘And the other two deaths?’

‘I don’t know so much about them. Hermione Totteridge was a well-known botanist . . .’

‘I see. You think it odd she died of . . .?’

‘She was apparently experimenting with a new insecticide.’

‘And Sir Ernest . . .?’

‘Sir Ernest Lowther. I had seen him only a month before he died. He was in fine fettle. He’d had trouble with his blood pressure but he was certainly not contemplating suicide.’

‘General Sir Ernest Lowther. The name’s familiar. He won a VC during the war – a hero of sorts. Was that the man?’

‘Yes, a gallant soldier. I was proud to know him.’

‘And how did he die?’

‘He liked his wine. He was a widower – lived alone. When his housekeeper came to clear up after dinner she found him on the floor. It looked as though he had tried to get out of his chair but had been felled by a heart attack. He had the wine bottle in his hand as though he was looking at it.’

‘Another heart attack! What was it – the wine?’

‘Clos des Mouches. We had actually talked about it when he last came to see me. It’s a Beaune from Joseph Drouhin. He recommended it – said ’33 and ’35 had been vintage years.’

‘Mouches – flies! So you think all three deaths involve insects? Did they test the wine to see if it had been poisoned?’

‘Not as far as I know. There was nothing in the paper about it being a suspicious death. It sounds crazy but here’s another thing. All three lived near Henley.’

‘Let me get this straight – Herold was the first to die?’

‘No, Miss Totteridge was the first. Then, a week or so later, General Lowther . . .’

‘Followed by James Herold.’

‘That’s right, but all three within two months. I have written down the details for you.’

Edward looked down the sheet of paper the dentist gave him. It was neat, succinct and to the point. ‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ he murmured. ‘Did Lowther and Hermione Totteridge also have notes in their pockets from our murderer?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t think who to ask. Then, when you telephoned for an appointment, I remembered hearing that you had investigated poor General Craig’s murder a few years back so I thought I’d consult you.’

‘It’s all so far-fetched!’ Verity was trying to sound interested but she was so tired it was hard to concentrate. She was by herself in a light, airy room overlooking Cleveland Street. As a good Communist, she had tried to insist on a public ward but the doctor would not hear of it. ‘Until we know what the matter is we must keep you in isolation. Wouldn’t do to infect the other patients, would it, Miss Browne?’

Edward knew that, in normal circumstances, the doctor’s tone of voice would have grated on her but she had no fight left in her and merely nodded her head meekly.

‘I’m sorry, V. I ought not to bore you. I’ll leave you to get some sleep.’

‘No please, stay with me for a bit.’ She clutched his hand. ‘My stock has definitely gone up having you visit me. Even the doctors treat me with respect and one of the nurses was swooning over you.’

‘What rot!’ It had genuinely never occurred to him that he was becoming quite famous. His photograph appeared in the illustrated papers on a regular basis and his reputation for solving crimes was gradually becoming known to a wider public however much he tried to keep a low profile. People he had never met asked him to pontificate on murder investigations he knew nothing about. The Daily Mail had actually asked him to be their crime correspondent, an offer he had indignantly refused. Verity had laughed when he told her and said it was a compliment.

Of course, it was also becoming common knowledge that he and Verity were more than just friends. The engagement was still supposed to be a secret – even his family had not been told officially, though it would be no surprise to Edward’s brother and sister-in-law when it was announced. He had noticed a photographer outside the hospital – a film star was recovering in the Middlesex after a suicide attempt – but the man had recognized him and taken his photograph. He was resigned to reading in the newspapers coy speculation on why he was so often at the bedside of the celebrated foreign correspondent, Miss Verity Browne.

‘I’m so sorry to be such a wet blanket,’ she was saying. ‘I was hoping that next time I was in London we could play at being a courting couple. You could take me to gay parties and show me off to your relatives and we could tell all our friends.’

‘I don’t go to parties and you already know all my relatives,’ he smiled. ‘I’m still waiting to be introduced to yours, by the way.’

‘My father? I do want you to meet him. He’s supposed to be back in England in a couple of weeks.’

‘Does he know about your . . .?’

‘My illness? I got his chambers to telegraph him – he’s in Buenos Aires of all places – but they haven’t heard anything yet.’

‘When will you get the results of the tests?’

‘Soon. Tomorrow, probably. It’s so stupid. I don’t know why I collapsed like that. I just feel so tired. A week or two of rest . . .’

‘I’ve been thinking about that . . .’

‘Mersham?’

‘Not there. I know Connie would love to have you,’ he added hastily, ‘but the castle’s still crawling with children.’ These were Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany. Mersham Castle had become one of the main ‘clearing houses’, as one official had named them, where the children were looked after until families could be found to take them.

Verity had winced to hear him say firmly that Connie would be so delighted to have her. The Duke, she knew, would not be so pleased. He had made it clear to her that he thought she was not good enough for his younger brother. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair on them,’ she said quickly. ‘They’ve got enough on their plate already and since it was my idea to bring the children to Mersham . . .’

‘Gerald loves it. He told me the other day he feels so much happier now that he’s doing something to help and the sound of children’s voices in those big empty rooms . . . well, he said it lifted his spirits no end. Those were his exact words.’

‘Still, if I have what the doctors think I have, I’m infectious . . .’

‘I’ve got a better idea. A friend of mine, Leonard Bladon – we were up at Trinity together – he’s a doctor . . . has a sort of clinic, I suppose you’d call it, but it’s more of a hotel – a place to recuperate for people who aren’t ill enough to be in hospital but who still need a bit of looking after. I thought it might fit the bill.’

‘And you can do a bit of sleuthing when you’re not ministering to me,’ Verity said with a little smile which made his heart turn over.

‘Something like that,’ he agreed.

‘Edward, you’re so sweet, but what if . . . what if I don’t get better? What if the doctors find something . . . something bad? I’m scared.’ Her voice was so low he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘You know what I’m like. I don’t mind rushing about a battlefield. A bit of danger makes me feel alive but to be ill . . . to lie in bed and know . . . or, worse still, not know.’

‘V, darling . . .’ Edward fought to find the right words. He knew that she badly needed reassurance but not empty platitudes. ‘We’ll know the worst soon enough. You’re a fighter and if . . . if the doctors say it’s serious, then we’ll fight it together. You’ve got lots of work to do so we can’t have you lying in bed for too long.’ He hastened to distract her. ‘Tell me about what you were up to in Czechoslovakia. I haven’t had a chance to ask what with all this . . .’ he tailed off.

Verity smiled wryly and squeezed his hand. ‘Not much to report, really. Like this – a waiting game. The Czechs mobilized their armed forces when it looked as though Germany was going to invade, as you know, but then nothing happened. The Germans didn’t invade. It seems Hitler’s pursuing a more subtle approach than merely marching across the border as he did in Austria – at least for the moment. I guess he’s testing the reaction of France and Britain to a gradual takeover. If, as seems likely, our government makes no protest, they’ll take over the whole country piecemeal. German civilians are pouring into the Sudetenland and, as they take jobs and businesses, refugees – not only Jews but Czech patriots of all kinds – leave for Prague. The city’s full to the brim of the dispossessed sitting in cafés making one small cup of coffee last a whole afternoon.’

Edward nodded his head. ‘I suspect the great British public isn’t interested in Czechoslovakia. They’d not support the government if they promised to go to the aid of the Czechs.’

‘And the British press won’t kick up a fuss about what Hitler is doing in Europe. We’re so bloody cosy behind our moat. The editor spikes most of my reports and Joe Weaver lets him. But I just know it’s all going to blow up while I’m tied to this bloody bed.’

It was rare to hear Verity swear and it signalled how depressed she was. Before he left the hospital – promising to return early the next day – Edward found the doctor who had examined her. He was a brusque young man – busy, efficient and not unsympathetic but he refused to allay any of his fears.

‘Come back tomorrow, Lord Edward. We’ll have the results of the tests and the X-rays before midday. Then we can decide what to do. One thing I can tell you – it will take a while before Miss Browne recovers her strength. I know mentally she’s not one to give up the struggle but physically she’s at the end of her tether. She’s going to need a lot of looking after.’

‘Answer that, will you, Fenton?’

Edward was stropping his razor – a ritual he enjoyed. He found it made him relax. He owned a safety razor, of course, but the whole business of soaping his face with the shaving brush and the feel of the cold blade against his skin was how he preferred to greet the day. He did not like being interrupted and so it was with irritation that he had heard the insistent ring of the telephone and with surprise bordering on indignation that he now heard Fenton at the bathroom door.

‘It’s Chief Inspector Pride, my lord. I told him you were engaged but he insists on talking to you. He says it’s urgent.’

Edward reluctantly wiped the soap off his face with a towel and pulled on a dressing-gown. He had to admit he was curious. He knew Pride of old but had not seen or talked to him for at least eighteen months. What had suddenly made him telephone at – he glanced at his watch – eight fifteen, before the day could properly be said to have started?

He grabbed the receiver. ‘Pride? Is that you?’ He had a sudden thought that he might want to talk to him about Verity. She was so often at odds with authority but he quickly remembered that, whatever problems she had to face, the police would not be one of them.

‘Sorry to bother you so early, my lord, but I wonder if you could come up to Devonshire Place, number sixty-two?’

‘That’s Eric Silver, my dentist’s address. What on earth are you doing there, Chief Inspector?’

‘It says in the appointment book that you saw him at five yesterday evening.’

‘That’s correct. I was his last appointment.’

‘His receptionist tells me that he usually had a five-thirty but he’d cancelled that appointment and sent her home early.’

‘That’s right. He wanted to consult me about something. Why, what’s the matter? Is Silver all right?’

‘I’m afraid not, my lord. He’s been murdered.’

‘Murdered!’

‘Yes, the receptionist – Miss Wilton – came in twenty minutes ago and found him in his chair. Someone had used his drill to make a hole in his head. And a very messy business he made of it.’

Edward almost dropped the receiver. ‘That’s horrible, disgusting. Who on earth would do such a thing? I say, Chief Inspector, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?’

‘I do, I’m afraid. I found a piece of paper – a page torn out of the appointment book as a matter of fact. On it were written in block capitals the words Aquila non captat muscas. If I am not mistaken, my lord, that is the legend to be found on the Mersham family arms.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I remembered it from my visit to Mersham Castle.’ Three years before, Pride had investigated the murder of General Craig at the Duke of Mersham’s dinner table.

‘That’s very impressive, Chief Inspector. What a memory you have. But, do you think . . .?’

‘I think, Lord Edward, that this whole business concerns you. Someone has just sent you a peculiarly unpleasant . . .