Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  He looked round the room again. There was a little horseshoe-shaped dressing table with a mirror above it. On the table there were the cosmetics which Molly had not needed to take with her to Haling. There was a bottle marked Milk of Gardenias, lipsticks and a powder puff in a china dish. Around the kneehole were little curtains and, when he drew them back, he saw several small drawers. It was distasteful to pry into so intimate a place but he reminded himself that, if it turned out Molly had been murdered, he owed it to their friendship to discover why and, most importantly, who had taken her life. The top two drawers held costume jewellery – nothing of any value. If Molly had any valuable jewels, they were either at Haling or in the bank. The bottom drawer contained knick-knacks and mementoes – a sea shell, a paperknife with a curiously decorated bone handle, several beads and a brooch. He took out the brooch and looked at it closely. Then, glancing towards the door to check that he was unobserved, he slipped it in his pocket.

  Leaving the Inspector to make his telephone calls, Edward went out into Trevor Square to smoke a cigarette and think things through. He had found letters – letters which the King would hardly want to fall into unfriendly hands – but they were not the letters for which he was looking. And what of Molly? She had thought she had met her Prince Charming when, instead, she had been a few weeks’ entertainment, nothing more, for a bored and foolish man who, like himself, he told himself ruefully, ought to have known better. Molly had been dispatched as casually as one might put down a troublesome dog and it made him angry. She wasn’t the most admirable of human beings but she was more a victim than a villain. The men in her life had used her even when she imagined she was using them. Her only power – her only way of making a space for herself – was through sex and it was sex which had led to her murder, Edward was sure of it. Her theft of Mrs Simpson’s letters was an absurd and futile attempt to win back the King’s affections. Politically, she was an innocent but there were people in her circle who were highly political. One of these had killed her to get them off her. But to do what with them? Did the man – or woman – want to destroy them or use them for blackmail or did they have some other use for them?

  It all came back to Dannie. Edward sighed and rubbed his forehead. What a fool he had been! It was easy to see now, after the event, that he should never have slept with her. He had desired her so much and he had been scared of losing her. He had thought she would think him a dull beast, a stick-in-the-mud, a prude, if he had said, ‘Not yet, we must get to know each other better before we go to bed together.’ He had had affairs before now with women he had liked but not loved and never regretted them but this was different. He had been a rabbit and the snake had swallowed him whole. It was humiliating. Whether she had found what she was looking for – whether she had murdered Molly – he could not say for certain but he was determined to find out. A phrase he had once heard his father use of a woman he despised came back to him – ‘a brazen hussy’. Dannie was a brazen hussy or, if she were something more complicated, then he needed to know what.

  As he meditated, he strolled across the square enjoying the sunshine. This was the Indian summer that in England so often came like a blessing before the winter rains. Feeling a sharp breath of wind cool his cheek as the sun went behind a cloud, he looked up and saw that he was in Knightsbridge, almost opposite Harrods. A small figure was tottering towards him laden with carrier bags and hatboxes and, though he could hardly see her face, he immediately recognized Verity.

  5

  ‘And may a gentleman rescue a lady for the second time in a week or would that expose her to unwelcome gossip?’ he inquired, tossing his cigarette into the gutter and catching a particularly awkward hatbox as it slipped out of her fingers.

  ‘Edward! Is that really you? Are you haunting me or is it pure coincidence you’re here? Yes, thanks,’ she added, letting him take some other of her parcels. ‘I was looking for a taxi but, just when I thought I had one, a brute of a man leapt in from the other side and made off with it. Where is chivalry? Has this blighted age done away with gentlemen?’

  ‘Please, miss,’ Edward said, ‘they likes to call me a gent.’

  ‘If that’s supposed to be cockney, forget it!’ Verity exclaimed. ‘Anyway, I’m glad it’s you. I wanted you to do something for me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. No problem, my lady. I’d touch my hat if I had one.’

  ‘Why haven’t you got a hat?’ she demanded. ‘You always wear a hat. You’ll catch your death – a man of your age and thin on top too. Have you been visiting a friend in the locality?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. Why not come and have a cup of tea at Gunter’s and I’ll tell all. Cakes, éclairs, meringues, scandal – irresistible surely?’

  ‘Éclairs, meringues! Pah, too bourgeois. You’ll have to try harder than that. You’re to come to dinner tonight. Adrian said if I bumped into you to invite you and there – I have bumped into you.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. I need permission from a policeman.’

  ‘Good heavens, Edward, don’t tell me you’ve been arrested.’

  ‘No, but . . . look, come with me into the square and you can rest for a moment and I can get the Inspector’s view on whether I’m allowed parole.’

  They were only a few hundred yards from Molly’s house and, when Edward knocked, Lampfrey answered the door.

  ‘Inspector, may I introduce you to Verity Browne? Verity, this is Inspector Lampfrey. Inspector, despite the Harrods bags with which Miss Browne is decorated, I have to warn you that she is in fact a well-known political extremist and a paid-up member of the Communist Party of Great Britain.’

  ‘Miss Browne,’ said the Inspector smiling. ‘I so much admire your reports in the New Gazette. I am correct in thinking you are the Verity Browne?’

  ‘I don’t know about the but, yes, I do work for the New Gazette. Of course, I’m flattered that you know my name but perhaps that’s because you’ve been investigating Lord Edward’s shady friends?’

  There was just a slight flicker in the Inspector’s gaze which suggested her retort had been a little too accurate for comfort but he was able to say without any other sign of being disconcerted, ‘In a manner of speaking, Miss Browne. I am afraid I am investigating the sudden death of Mrs Harkness. This is – or I should say was – her house.’

  ‘Oh, how perfectly dreadful. I had no idea. Edward, why didn’t you tell me? Mrs Harkness? When . . . how did it happen?’

  Edward said soberly, ‘I didn’t have time to tell you, V. Molly was at Haling. I told you I was going down to Wiltshire. She was one of the guests.’

  ‘Haling? What’s that?’

  ‘It’s Leo Scannon’s house. You know, the Conservative MP.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Molly died of an overdose – veronal or barbitone, we think. It’s the same thing – a sleeping draught.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was it an accident?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ the Inspector said. ‘Did you know Mrs Harkness, Miss Browne?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure I’ve heard Lord Edward mention her. You knew her in Africa, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t you . . . know her rather well?’

  ‘V! Wash your mouth out with soap. I did not have an affair with Molly if that’s what you are implying. I do wish someone would believe me,’ he said plaintively. ‘I merely rescued her, as is my custom,’ he said, looking at Verity meaningfully, ‘from scandal and contumely.’

  ‘Contumely?’

  ‘I’m sure I told you: Molly’s husband shot himself in front of her and, although the marriage was . . . unhappy, it was a dreadful shock as you can imagine. In fact, she was in such a bad way I took her off to the Cape to recover.’

  ‘I remember. She’d been having a string of affairs and her poor husband couldn’t stand any more of it.’

  ‘You’re too hard on her. She was as much a victim as she was to blame,’ Edward said, feeling a pang of guilt a
t the mention of affairs. ‘The husband was a drunkard and beat her.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the Inspector broke in hurriedly, ‘the poor lady died of an overdose.’

  ‘I see,’ Verity said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken ill of her. I’m the last person to throw stones. Inspector, can you give this man parole for a day or possibly two? I need him . . . as a chauffeur,’ she added hastily, in case he got the wrong idea.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ the Inspector said, silently breathing a sigh of relief that he would not after all have to suffer another hair-raising journey in the Lagonda.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Edward said, looking troubled. ‘I can’t just desert the Inspector like that. Anyway, if it turns out Molly was killed, then I’m a prime suspect and he won’t want to risk me absconding.’

  ‘Killed? Whatever do you mean, Edward? You’re not going to tell me it was murder? I assumed it was an accident or . . . or suicide.’

  ‘It probably was an accident,’ Edward said hurriedly, seeing her evident distress and wishing he hadn’t been flippant. ‘You want me back at Haling, don’t you, Inspector?’

  ‘Not for a day or two, until I get the post-mortem report. If you give me your telephone number . . . ’

  ‘I don’t know . . . ’ Edward repeated. ‘How would you get back to Marlborough?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ the Inspector implored him. ‘There’s a train at eight o’clock from Paddington. That’ll get me back almost as fast as the Lagonda.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t been scaring the Inspector,’ Verity said reprovingly. ‘Did he drive you as though he thought he were Malcolm Campbell, Inspector?’

  ‘No, I assure you. Lord Edward . . . I am very grateful but I really can manage. I’m sure Miss Browne will answer for you not jumping police bail. That was a joke,’ he added, seeing Edward’s face cloud over.

  ‘I’ll deliver him back to Haling in one piece, Mr Lampfrey, I promise.’

  ‘That’s all right then. You two run along and leave me to do a bit of work. Oh, Miss Browne, I am quite sincere in saying I admire your work. Your account of the siege of Toledo was . . . very vivid. You really ought to write a book.’

  ‘As it happens, I am, Inspector. Mr Gollancz, the publisher you know, has asked me to collect up my New Gazette articles for the Left Book Club.’

  Edward said indignantly, ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘It’s only just happened. I was going to tell you.’

  ‘I am sure it will be a bestseller,’ the Inspector said. ‘When is it to be published?’

  ‘If I can do the work in a month, then in January or February.’

  Edward was still in a state of shock. Verity – an author! But why not? Now he thought about it, it was her obvious next step. Why did one always think one’s friends could never be famous? He was impressed.

  ‘I say, Verity, jolly good show. Congrats and all that. What’s the book to be called?’

  ‘Searchlight on Spain, I think, but that may change. Anyway,’ she said, wanting to change the subject, ‘I must gather up my parcels. Edward, would you be a dear and get me a taxi?’

  ‘Nonsense, I’ll take you in the Lagonda.’

  The Inspector coughed. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Miss Browne, but do Communist Party members usually shop at Harrods?’

  ‘Precisely!’ Edward said. ‘Just what I said the other day with reference to Galeries Lafayette.’

  Verity blushed. ‘Oh, do stop ragging, Edward, and you too, Inspector. Why shouldn’t I shop where I want? This is a free country, or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Not if you Reds had anything to do with it,’ Edward said nastily.

  ‘Do put a sock in it, won’t you. But please, Inspector, if it turns out Mrs Harkness was murdered, you will tell me, won’t you?’

  The policeman and Edward looked at each other interrogatively. Edward said, ‘If we do say anything, V, you’ll have to promise not to write about it, cross your heart and hope to die. This is all highly confidential and not for reporting in any of the rags you work for.’

  ‘I’m a journalist . . . ’

  ‘Well then, nothing. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’

  ‘Dash it, I really can’t . . . ’

  ‘No!’ the Inspector and Edward said in unison.

  ‘Not until I give you my permission, at any rate,’ Lampfrey relented.

  ‘Oh, all right then. I promise.’ She raised her hand and made the scout’s salute.

  When the Inspector had seen them out and the door had shut behind them, Edward said, ‘Before I take you back to the King’s Road, why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with me at Albany. It’s hardly out of the way.’

  ‘It is but . . . will Fenton be there to chaperone me?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘No, but I promise you I’m a perfect gentleman, at least where women are concerned.’ Then he remembered Dannie and looked guilty but Verity didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ she said naughtily. Edward glanced at her to see if she were joking but was unable to decide.

  ‘Gosh! I didn’t know you were a cook!’ Verity said admiringly.

  ‘I can boil a kettle and toast a muffin.’

  ‘That’s more than I can do.’

  ‘But you must have cooked when you had that flat in Hans Crescent.’

  ‘I didn’t need to. There was a delightful little Italian restaurant just across the road. Giuseppe did all the cooking. You see, I never had a mother so there was never anyone to teach me the basics of living. That’s why I turned out to be such a frightful rapscallion.’ Verity looked thoroughly pleased with herself and then disappointed that Edward did not tell her how sorry he was she was a motherless child, but he was thinking of his own mother.

  ‘My mother – I did have a mother and a very good sort of mother – but she never cooked so much as an egg in her life. If you had shown her a kettle she would hardly have recognized it.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Verity said, this sort of remark being the proverbial and, in her case, almost literal, red rag. ‘The working classes exploited by the idle aristocracy. No offence to your mother. It’s the system which is to blame. I have no doubt there are hundreds of women out there who would like nothing better than to run their own lives and not be “at the mercy” of servants, as I have heard some of them say. To have a room of their own, as Mrs Woolf puts it. Do you know why I could never bear ever again to go to one of those dinner parties my father used to take me to?’

  ‘Because they bore you, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, they do or would if I let them. You’ve never had to sit with the women after dinner leaving the men to talk politics and smut. The women have nothing to talk about but children, the servant problem and their hairdressers or couturiers. I mean, if they could only be shown the way two-thirds of the population have to live – in squalid slums, surrounded by hungry children . . . Don’t smile, Edward, I’m serious.’

  ‘I’m not smiling. I mean I’m not smiling at the plight of the women, but I like it when you get indignant.’

  ‘Now you’re being patronizing. I’ve had to talk to you about that before.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be. I just like remembering the plucky little fighting cat I met on the road to Mersham a year ago. In fact, I would go further and make a profound point about the way our world is changing. You are living a man’s life – economically, I mean. You’re earning your living doing a tough job instead of behaving as our mothers might have expected. And what’s more,’ he said, following up his argument, ‘until it becomes possible for a girl to have a job and a husband and children, then you’re in the rotten position of having to choose which life you want to lead. And because you’re the brave, spunky girl you are, you choose the difficult way.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Verity said, rather taken aback. ‘There may be something in what you say but it doesn’t mean I won’t ever marry and do . . . do normal things,’ she ended almost grudgingly.r />
  ‘Kick me if I’m speaking out of turn,’ he said, avoiding her eye, ‘but I get the feeling . . . I expect I’m talking nonsense . . . that Spain was much worse than you expected and it knocked the stuffing out of you. Tell me I’m a fool and talking rot.’

  Verity hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t say it knocked the stuffing out of me. I hope not anyway, but I have seen things which make it difficult to live in England now. I mean it’s so parochial, so smug. Talk about burying the collective head in the sand! And yet, can one blame people? Perhaps they sense that before long “the piping days of peace” are going to give way to blood and guns. Perhaps they feel they should be allowed to enjoy their families and their humdrum jobs while they can.’

  ‘But if they – or at least the government – weren’t so complacent it might not need to come to blood and guns. Leaders have a duty to lead and we’ve been let down.’

  ‘Yes, but politicians can’t make the people who elected them stand up and fight unless they can be persuaded they are fighting to protect their own families, their own back gardens. I used to think people would fight for right but I don’t think that any more.’

  They were silent, wondering perhaps how similar their views were despite their different perspectives. Eventually, Edward said carefully, ‘Toledo was bad?’

  ‘Yes, bad,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Sometime.’ She put out her hand for tea and the cup rattled on the saucer. ‘I saw some bad things in Spain, after you left. Convents and monasteries razed to the ground, priests and nuns being torn apart – by our side I mean. We had justification – God knows we had justification – but I did see . . . ’ She halted again as though on the verge of breaking down. Edward neither spoke nor tried to touch her. He knew he had to let her get out her grief and disillusionment, like drawing pus out of a wound.

  ‘I don’t feel now that . . . that it’s good against bad. It’s not so simple. Franco’s men . . . they are barbarians but our side . . . not so much better.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘At Toledo we were winning but for some reason we could not get the rebels – officer cadets they were – to lay down their arms. They fought like . . . like they believed in their cause . . . but how could they?’