No More Dying

by David Roberts

  When at last Verity appeared and they sat down to breakfast, the first people they saw were Moore-Brabazon himself and Joe Kennedy Jr. Brab greeted them warmly and Edward haltingly expressed their thanks for arranging the holiday.

  ‘Not at all, young man,’ Brab said, beaming. ‘Winston speaks very warmly of you and any friend of his I count a friend of mine. You know Kennedy, don’t you? He’s one of our most promising riders.’ They shook hands and Joe Jr said how delighted he was that they were in St Moritz at the same time while promising not to dog their heels.

  ‘I know you’ll want to be left alone but perhaps we could meet this evening for a drink and, if you felt like it, we could dine together?’ Brab suggested.

  After Kennedy and Brab had left and they were settling into their hot chocolate and croissants, Verity voiced Edward’s thoughts. ‘Is it just a coincidence Joe Jr being here, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be,’ he said carefully. ‘We know he’s a great sportsman and, if Moore-Brabazon is with him, it must all be above board.’

  Rather to Edward’s annoyance – he had hoped to be the patient teacher – Verity immediately hit it off with her instructor, Karl – one of those brown-faced, superbly fit athletes who looked good in goggles. Perhaps because she was small and had no fear of falling, she took to skiing with all the confidence and enthusiasm of a novice who had never seen a nasty accident on the slopes.

  She would have skied all day if Edward had not insisted they stop for lunch. He had laid on a sleigh to take them to the charming little Stazer See beyond the town. The horses, decorated with bells and feathers, tossed their heads as the sleigh slid over the crisp snow which had hardly melted in the midday sun. Cuddled beneath the heavy blanket the driver had thrown over their laps, Verity relaxed and surrendered herself to the happiness of being looked after by someone she loved and trusted. When they reached the lake, they left the horses stamping, their breath steaming in the cold air, and entered a small hut built of pine and furnished with tables and benches hewn from logs. There they ate long, smoky sausages smothered in the light mustard of the area and drank the local beer. On the return journey Verity slept in Edward’s arms and he felt as happy as he could ever remember.

  When they arrived at the Kulm, she begged to go skiing again but it was almost four and getting cold so Edward was firm in his refusal. Instead, they walked about the town and indulged in creamy coffee and the most delicious chocolate cake Verity had ever tasted. Then they went to bed and made love and slept and loved again. She had thought that after so much food she would never be hungry but whether it was the air or the love, when the time came to dress for dinner, she decided that she might after all manage an omelette.

  ‘Do you mind eating with Joe Jr and Brab if we run into them?’ Edward asked.

  ‘No, it might be interesting. After all, we don’t want to use up all our conversation in the first few days of marriage, do we?’

  She devoured vegetable soup and a veal chop – rather leathery to be sure but even shoe leather would have tasted delicious in the mood she was in now – while Brab told them about the Cresta Run.

  ‘It’s three-quarters of a mile long and has a drop of over five hundred feet, roughly the height of a fifty storey building. The track’s about six feet wide and has an average gradient of one in seven with some bits as steep as one in two. It’s solid ice all the way down or, as we say, from Top to Finish and it’s watered every night so as to be virgin ice in the morning. I can never believe at this time of year that in summer it completely disappears and turns into grass. It has to be reconstructed every year by men with shovels. The important thing is that the Cresta Run is for amateurs,’ he went on. ‘There are races and cups – the Morgan Cup, for instance, and the Heaton Gold Cup and the Bott Cup which was first presented in 1905 and is the oldest of all, but there are no money prizes. It’s all for the honour and glory. Guests are welcome, Corinth, so I do hope you’ll have a go.’

  ‘Can women do it?’ Verity asked, predictably.

  ‘Miss Wheble won the Bott Cup in 1908 but soon after that women were banned. It’s just too dangerous.’

  ‘Is it very dangerous?’ she pressed.

  ‘Very,’ Brab replied breezily, ‘It’s easy to be knocked about – bruises, damaged fingers, that sort of thing. Serious injuries are rare but not unknown. We can’t use the Run the day after tomorrow because we’re marking the death of poor old Capadrutt who was killed on the Bob Run, not the Cresta, thank God. So, if you want to have a shot at it, Corinth, you should go tomorrow. As it happens, it’s a very good time to be here because last year the course was opened from Top.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Well, for some years the Run started at Junction – look, I’ll show you.’ Brab pulled out his pocket map of the Run. ‘Many races still do start there, particularly early in the season, but now we can start much higher, weather permitting.’

  Edward examined the map. ‘It looks frightening.’

  ‘It is, but exhilarating. You see . . .’ he pointed on the map with a stubby finger, ‘you begin very steep, flatten out a little, then at Church Leap – the steepest part of the entire run – you can run right out of control as you slide up three steep banks. It’s like jumping off a cliff and you have to rake hard if you don’t want to break your neck. But if you survive to reach Shuttlecock, that’s where the fun really starts. There’s a sharp righthander called Battledore which throws you into the low, left-hand turn of Shuttlecock. If you don’t get into it high and early, centrifugal force will carry you up and over the edge. You have to ride well. There are no short cuts which don’t lead to hospital. Unless you are pretty good, you can literally fly off the track at Shuttlecock or at Scylla and Charybdis. I’ve often seen it happen, even with experienced men like Joe here. You have to remember that the Cresta is not a “slide” but a “run” that wants riding.’

  ‘Gosh! Have you ever injured yourself?’ Verity couldn’t help asking him, thinking of Edward.

  ‘Not badly. Despite what I said, if he’s properly kitted out with helmet and gloves and so on, he’ll be all right,’ Brab replied reassuringly. ‘You wear goggles, of course, and leather pads to protect your knees and elbows.’

  ‘How do you steer the toboggan?’ she asked faintly. It was a question Edward wanted to ask and he was glad Verity had asked it for him. He did not want to sound feeble.

  ‘Well, you have heavy metal spikes on your boots which you use to slow yourself up – we call it raking – and you shift your body to steer. The further forward you are on the toboggan, the faster you go. It’s huge fun, isn’t it, Joe?’

  ‘The greatest!’ the young man said. ‘You must have a go, Edward.’

  After drinking several bottles of indifferent Italian wine and then brandy with their cigars, Verity and Edward said good night to Joe and Brab and went up to bed too sleepy to do much but lie in each other’s arms.

  ‘I have bad feelings about the Cresta Run,’ Verity said, her voice muffled by Edward’s shoulder on which she was lying. ‘I forbid you to try it. You’re too old.’

  But Edward was already asleep.

  In contrast to their first night, he slept deeply without dreaming, purring rather than snoring. Verity, on the other hand, lay awake for an hour thinking over what had been a perfect day. They had not discussed the murders. They had never mentioned the possibility of war and separation. She owed Colonel Moore-Brabazon for that. They had been content to listen as he recollected past triumphs and lectured them on the history of the Cresta Run. She thought about skiing and how she could get to love it – that moment of flying downhill hardly able to see or think but feeling utterly alive. And she luxuriated in the knowledge that she had done what she had resisted for so long. She had made the commitment to the man whose bed she shared and their lives were now totally entwined.

  She nuzzled against him, tasting his flesh, and he stirred but did not wake. She recalled somethi
ng he had quoted at her – it was an infuriating habit of which she had yet to cure him – ‘For present joys are more to flesh and blood than a dull prospect of a distant good.’ She couldn’t remember who had said it but it was certainly what she now felt. And yet there was unresolved business. Perhaps there always would be. Only in fairy tales were the ends neatly tied up, the monster killed and the beautiful princess rescued by the prince to live happily ever after.

  Just when she was drifting into sleep, she thought of Casey and was instantly wide awake again. As David had suggested, he must have killed Lulu and Tom and probably Mr Kennedy’s friend Eamon Farrell as well. But why? Edward had come up with motives and she had been convinced but now, in the loneliness of a sleepless night, they rang hollow. Casey had run off, disappeared, seeming to admit his guilt. But she couldn’t get it out of her head that there was something wrong – that she and Edward had got something badly wrong.

  Early the following morning they walked on to the bridge over the Cresta Run just beyond the hotel. For half an hour they watched as unidentifiable men hurtled beneath them on fragile-looking toboggans until Verity complained that her feet were getting cold and they went back to the Kulm for hot coffee.

  ‘I absolutely forbid you to try it,’ she said seriously. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself trying to show that you are as game as Joe Jr. You don’t have to prove anything, at least not to me, and you’re too old.’

  Edward did not disagree. He had already, reluctantly, decided against attempting the Cresta Run. He didn’t want to injure himself on their honeymoon but he worried that Brab and Joe Jr might think him a coward. ‘Brab’s older than me,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I don’t care. He’s an extraordinary man. You know he was telling me that he had the first pilot’s licence?’

  ‘So I’m ordinary?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said impatiently. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘“You are old, sir. Let it satisfy you, you are too old”’, he quoted, and, when she made no comment, couldn’t resist adding, ‘All’s Well That Ends Well.’

  ‘Look, Edward,’ she sounded exasperated, ‘I’m only going to say this once – stop quoting at me. It just makes me feel under educated and inadequate, which I know I am.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said humbly, suppressing an apposite quotation.

  When they had warmed themselves they made their way to the nursery slopes and, under Karl’s watchful eye, Verity skiied with an ease and grace which surprised even her. At last, she began to feel tired.

  ‘You know, whether it’s the mountain air or skiing or being married to you but for the first time in ages I really feel well.’

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ he responded, taking her arm and squeezing it. ‘I’ve noticed it too. Your colour is better and you are breathing more easily. And you have given up smoking. I believe that’s made a difference.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t said that. I immediately felt a pang of regret. It was bad enough having to watch you smoke a cigar. If you offered me a cigarette now, I’d . . .’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Instead, I’m going to take you skating.’

  ‘Skating! How wonderful!’ They had passed the ice rink – the Eis-Stadion – the previous afternoon and Verity had asked if they could try it sometime.

  For a few minutes, drinking hot spiced wine, they stood watching from the side of the rink and then – impatient as ever – she dragged Edward off to hire skates.

  ‘Skiing’s easy compared to this!’ she said, sitting down on the ice with a bump for the third time.

  ‘Just hold on to me, V. Hey, don’t pull me . . .’

  They collapsed on the ice in a tangle of limbs, Verity in fits of laughter. In her present mood, everything was fun and nothing could hurt her. She was in a state of blessed forgetfulness.

  When she thought she had got the hang of it she set off gingerly on her own, keeping as close to the barrier as possible. Edward let her go, feeling proud that this beautiful, spirited woman was ‘his’ – as far as she could ever be anyone’s. He lost sight of her behind a group of skaters and was momentarily overwhelmed with fear, as though he were a parent who had lost a child in a crowd. It was quite absurd, he knew, so for a minute or two he practised turns and stops but, when she still hadn’t appeared, he skated across the ice to check that she hadn’t fallen and hurt herself. He reached the barrier on the far side but still could not see her. Panic rose like bile in his mouth and his heart thumped. It was not possible. Was this a repeat of the unforgettable, haunting incident the previous summer when she had been taken hostage and almost drowned? No, he would not even think about it.

  Suddenly, to his huge relief, he saw her. She was with a man and they were talking earnestly. As he skated towards them, the man looked up and, seeing Edward, disappeared into the crowd. He thought he saw him press something into Verity’s hand as he skated off. It was Casey. There could be no doubt of it. What was he doing in St Moritz and what had he got to say to Verity? A nightmare vision passed like a curtain over his mind. Casey was her lover. He had come to claim her, to steal her from him. They had been talking with the self-absorption of lovers. He had run off when he had seen him. It all added up.

  No, he was being ridiculous, he chided himself. Hadn’t she proved how much she loved him in bed that morning? But he was still racked with irrational, unforgiving jealousy. He tried to regain control of his emotions, like the reins of a runaway horse. It was much more likely, he told himself, and much more to be feared that Casey was trying to persuade her that he was not a murderer. Verity had always doubted the evidence which was, it had to be admitted, circumstantial. Edward, on the other hand, was convinced that he had fled London from guilt and for no other reason.

  With a heart as cold as the ice below him, he slid up to Verity and halted with a spray of ice. She raised her head and seemed surprised and not altogether pleased to see him. ‘Edward!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where did you get to?’

  Instead of saying ‘Wasn’t that Casey I saw you talking to?’ he held his tongue like some over-proud Othello – he had a vivid memory of Laurence Olivier as Iago at the Old Vic. Why should he question her? She would explain everything without him having to ask. But she did not.

  At dinner that evening they ate alone, hardly exchanging a word, and that night they did not make love. Neither of them remarked on the fact that this was the first since their wedding that they had not done so but both felt it. Neither slept well and, in the early hours before dawn, he did take her – roughly and without joy. She did not resist him but he knew she felt nothing but discomfort as he entered her.

  After breakfast, during which she made a great effort to throw off her air of preoccupation, Verity reminded him that Karl was giving her a private lesson on the nursery slopes while he went off with a guide to attempt a tricky ‘black’ run. His first thought was to cancel and spend the morning spying on Verity. He immediately checked the impulse. He was ashamed of himself. If not now, when would he ever trust her? The idea that she might betray him was ridiculous and to try to protect her when she had not asked for protection might end in disaster. She must have a plan and, if he disrupted it without knowing what it was, he might put her in more danger. Even if he did try to find out what she was up to – if she had arranged another meeting with Casey, for instance – was it practicable? She would see him. Casey would see him. There was nowhere to hide on the nursery slopes and she would want to know what he was doing. When he confessed, as he knew he would, her fury would be corrosive. Their marriage was based on trust and, whatever he did, he must not undermine it.

  So, reluctantly, he departed with his guide to a distant north-facing slope leaving Verity with Karl. When she kissed him goodbye, he thought she might, after all, ask him to stay with her but she did not.

  The skiing was difficult and even dangerous for some one of his age who had not skied for several years and he was aware of his guide’s concern that he was clearly strug
gling. Just after midday, he was grateful when the guide suggested they had done enough. Although Edward had managed to stay upright and was feeling more confident, his legs and thighs hurt from the strain he was putting on under-used muscles. However, one good thing had come out of it. There had been no time to brood on what Verity was up to.

  They went to a small log cabin serving sausage in a bun which hungry skiers washed down with beer or glühwein. There his guide left him. Edward parked his skis, removed his woollen hat and gloves and stepped into the dark interior. He was almost blind after the brightness outside but a pleasant girl in a dirndl took his order. He took his sausage and beer outside and sat on a bench in the sun. It would have been a moment of pure happiness had Verity been sitting beside him. As it was, though his body was warm, he still felt cold. Restless, he got up from the bench and took his beer to the rail. A dread of something to come spoilt his enjoyment and disturbed his equanimity. The view was breathtaking. The snow, stretching like a linen tablecloth down the mountain, was speckled with the figures of skiers carving lines of grace and beauty on the pristine white. Looking upwards towards the mountain tops he saw grandeur and purity. The peaks appeared unsullied and unapproachable, and the rocks stood out black against the all-encompassing white. The air was so cold and pure that it almost made him giddy.

  Reluctantly, he took his empty tankard back into the cabin. He contemplated ordering a second beer but decided that, coupled with the champagne air, it would make him drowsy. As his eyes got used to the gloom, he saw a couple in the corner, heads bowed towards one another. He thought at first that they must be lovers. Then, with a start of recognition, he realized that it was Verity and Casey. As he watched, she leant forward and took his hand.