Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  Attempting to ignore the jeers of the urchins at his back, he stepped smartly into the church hall and was met by a stink of humanity and a noise which deafened him. It was a few moments before he could see Verity. She was not actually speaking but was sitting beside a large woman in twinset and pearls, a fur tippet and a remarkable hat laden with highly coloured fruit. A small man in black with a Charlie Chaplin moustache was muttering to the front row. Even if the audience had been quite silent he would have been inaudible at the back of the hall but, in the circumstances, Edward doubted whether even the front row heard what he was saying. The large lady was restless, clearly appreciating that a riot was imminent if the little man did not give way to someone more popular. At last, unable to bear it any longer, she got to her feet and in stentorian tones called the meeting to order and proceeded to introduce Verity.

  Edward’s emotions on seeing Verity – looking very small and vulnerable – stand up and take two or three steps towards the lectern were similar to those of a father watching his child being taken away by a teacher into the school playground for the first time. She was so close yet quite beyond his reach and at the mercy of a hostile mob. Verity would, of course, have resented any such feeling on his part as patronizing. She would have pointed out that ‘the mob’ was just a few hundred people, the majority of whom were sympathetic to Communism if not actually Party members. In addition, she was by now reasonably used to public speaking and, being naturally confident that her views on any matter, political or personal, were the right ones, she was not diffident. She had witnessed so much suffering and horror in Spain – suffering of which most middle-class English girls were blessedly ignorant – that addressing a meeting in an East End hall could hardly be considered intimidating. The odd thing was that, despite all this, Verity was nervous. It was partly that her nerves had not recovered from the battle for Toledo and, more immediately, that she had been warned by the lady who was to introduce her – in a hurried, whispered colloquy while the little man was failing to make himself heard – that the meeting had been infiltrated by a group of blackshirts who were planning trouble.

  She stood for a moment, her rather absurd hat quivering like a black halo over her head, waiting for the crowd to be silent. Edward had never heard her speak in public before and was frightened for her. What if they laughed at her? What if they threw things at her? He need not have worried. Her voice was light but audible even at the back of the hall where he was standing sandwiched behind a costermonger smelling of fruit and sweat and a navvy, to judge from his calloused hands, who kept on looking at him as if he were from another planet. Verity spoke of ‘the war against war, against want, against poverty and against exploitation’. There was nothing new in what she had to say but she said it with such evident sincerity, blazing with anger when she mentioned ‘the employers’ and the ‘exploiting classes’, that no one could remain indifferent. Some in the audience were soon shouting their support, cheering and clapping, and Edward joined in the applause until he saw the expressions on the faces of those near him. It was borne in on him that he was being identified as the nearest representative of the ‘exploiting classes’ and that his approval of the speaker was seen as ironic. He tried to melt into the background but was unable to do so. He looked what he was: an English gentleman who had ‘never done a day’s work in his life’, as Verity had labelled him during one of their rows.

  He was just wondering if he was going to be able to edge out of the hall without being pulled limb from limb when he was saved by the blackshirts. An organized barracking began from a group of them in the middle of the hall which drowned out Verity. Enraged supporters of the speaker started their own noisy protest and, inevitably, scuffles broke out, fists flew and noses were bloodied. The large lady on the platform rose to her feet appealing for order and received a vegetable – Edward thought a turnip but Verity identified it later as a tomato – on her majestic bosom. There was a moment’s pause as this affront to the lady’s dignity was digested – not, of course, literally – and then chaos. By sticking together, the blackshirts, who probably only numbered about thirty, were able to do considerable damage before being ejected into the road just as a group of burly policemen arrived in a Black Maria. Edward was ejected at the same time – his shirt torn where his neighbour had grabbed it and the jacket of his suit covered in muck from the floor on which he had briefly been rolled. Reluctantly, because, as he tried in vain to explain to his assailants, he was not himself a blackshirt, he had begun to return punch for punch and was soon laying about him with some effect. By the time he had been thrown out of the hall by the costermonger and three of his friends, he had gained their respect as a fighter if not as a political theoretician.

  He panted to one of the policemen, ‘I say, I think . . . ’ and was knocked unconscious by the constable’s truncheon.

  Edward woke with a blinding headache. He was in an ambulance and the clanging of its bell made his head hurt worse than ever.

  ‘Don’t move,’ a voice said. He looked up at the speaker expecting to see the calm, beautiful face of a nurse complete with starched uniform and wimple but instead he found himself gazing into the distinctly cross face of Verity Browne. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  ‘I can’t understand why it is, whenever you are anywhere near a political rally, you get yourself knocked out by one of our brave policemen. First it was the horse in Cable Street and now . . . a policeman said you assaulted him. You really musn’t assault policemen. They’re supposed to be on your side – you are a member of the ruling classes, aren’t you?’

  Edward did not feel in the mood for irony and said, ‘I say, what happened back there?’

  ‘Loyal supporters of the cause took you for a blackshirt – that’s what happened. You hurt one poor fellow quite badly. Oh well, I suppose I must forgive you. Were you trying to protect me from the nasty men, diddums?’

  ‘No, I was not! I just . . . ouch, you’re supposed to soothe me not bang my head.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s not easy being soothing in a moving vehicle.’

  ‘Where are we going anyway?’

  ‘They thought you ought to go to hospital. I said you had a thick skull and would soon come round but I was overruled. Sorry.’

  ‘No, I probably need hospital treatment.’

  ‘Anyway, the interesting news is that guess who I saw in the middle of the rioting?’

  ‘Major Stille?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ Verity said, annoyed. ‘The point is that, once again he wasn’t with the blackshirts, as you might suppose, but close to them pretending to be one of us.’

  ‘One of us?’

  ‘A Party worker – a member of the proletariat. He swung a punch at one of Mosley’s thugs and I think it must have been some kind of signal because that was when the riot started.’

  ‘Give me some water and an aspirin, will you,’ Edward said, struggling into a sitting position.

  ‘I don’t think you ought to get up,’ Verity said doubtfully. ‘Concussion is a very tricky thing, you know. Even with a bean as thick as yours, you’ve got to be careful. I remember Tommie saying – when he was knocked out in some rugger match – that he had revelations of angels and whatnot for two weeks afterwards. In any case, it’s very discouraging for the ambulance people if their patients heal themselves. Hey, hold on! You’re pushing me over.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m kissing you. Patients always fall in love with their nurses. It’s the done thing.’

  Whether it was the knock on the head or the scent of the girl so close to him but Edward was at last able to do what he had wanted to do for eighteen months and take her in his arms and kiss her. She struggled at first but then seemed to accept the inevitability of it and even began to return his kisses. Fortunately, or unfortunately, at that moment they arrived at St George’s and stumbled out into the hospital, all linoleum and white paint. Edward tried to say he did not need treatment but was bundled into the emergency room b
y an unsympathetic nurse as starched as her white cap. A young doctor cleaned his wound and asked if he had been in a fight. Verity said they had been at a political meeting which made the doctor purse his lips and slap iodine on Edward’s head as if he enjoyed seeing his patient wince. When he had finished, he put a bandage on it and told the nurse to give Edward a cup of tea and discharge him. The general feeling seemed to be that he had only got what he deserved and was wasting the time of busy people with more pressing cases to deal with. It was no good his trying to say he thoroughly agreed with them. He was in the wrong and that was that.

  They were oddly subdued in the cab on their way to Albany. Edward was now feeling faint and rather sick. He was not up to renewing his lovemaking. Verity, too, seemed unenthusiastic but, when he gripped her hand, she did not try and remove it. At Albany they were met by Fenton who was predictably disapproving. His look said more plainly than words: ‘Why is it, Miss Browne, that whenever my master is in your company he comes home wounded?’

  Gently but firmly, he took charge of Edward and when he had put him to bed he encouraged Verity to leave by not offering her refreshment of any kind and saying sternly, ‘Lord Edward needs rest and if you would care to telephone tomorrow morning, miss, he may . . . ’ or may not, was the implication, ‘be able to talk to you.’

  Verity went back to the Hassels’ house contemplating the day’s events. She had a feeling she was reluctant to analyze that something significant had occurred and, despite everything, she felt happier than she had for some time.

  8

  Two days later an excited Verity overcame Fenton’s studied hostility and Edward, still feeling headachy and sick, was summoned to the telephone.

  ‘It’s just come through – the news. I think we should go down straight away. Do you think it’s worth ringing Inspector Lampfrey?’

  ‘What news, Verity? Stop burbling and tell me what’s happened. I thought reporters were supposed to be lucid in an emergency.’

  ‘It’s your pal Leo Scannon. He’s dead . . . . murdered. Apparently he ate rat poison yesterday. It’s on our front page. I was trying to get to see Joe to ask if he can put me on the case but apparently he’s closeted with the PM. The whole Mrs Simpson business is coming to a head.’

  ‘Steady on, old thing. My head’s still hurting. You say Scannon’s dead – that he’s been murdered? I can’t believe it. Who on earth would want to do such a thing?’

  ‘Well, I can think of some people I know who will be happy to hear he’s dead,’ Verity said grimly. ‘Perhaps the person who put the rat in my bed put the poison in Scannon’s porridge.’

  ‘In his porridge! How disgusting. Do we know who was at Haling when he died?’

  ‘No. Look, telephone Inspector Lampfrey. See whether he will talk to us. Remind him you will see him at Molly’s inquest tomorrow, in any case.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, the inquest. I had almost forgotten.’

  ‘Well, don’t. You’re a star witness. If you forget to turn up, they’ll probably send you to prison for contempt of court or something. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m still hoping to have a word with the boss when he gets back from Downing Street. Can’t spend all day chatting with the idle rich. I’ll come round about lunch-time.’

  ‘But what can I say to Lampfrey? What’s it to do with us?’

  ‘It’s all tied up with Molly’s death and probably with your friend Dannie as well,’ she added unwisely.

  ‘I don’t see what it has to do with Dannie . . . ’ Edward shook the receiver but the line was dead. Verity had a habit of not waiting to hear his excuses for inaction. He sighed and guiltily went back to bed to think. Scannon dead! What did it all mean? He certainly had not liked the man but this . . . If it were rat poison surely it had to have been administered by someone in the house or nearby so there couldn’t be any connection with Molly’s death because all Scannon’s guests had dispersed. He had begun to wonder if it hadn’t been Scannon himself who had killed Molly but now it seemed impossible unless, of course, someone was taking revenge for her death. Damn. He just didn’t have enough facts. He realized, suddenly, that he hadn’t even started investigating Molly’s murder; he had just let himself react to events. He got out of bed and began pacing up and down, galvanized by this new, quite unexpected death. One thing was certain: Haling Castle was certainly not a place to recommend for a rest cure, unless it was that one last rest you were talking about. Damn and blast! He should be up and doing.

  He went to the door and called to Fenton. ‘Run me a bath, will you, while I make a telephone call.’

  Fenton, who had anticipated his master’s command and was already in the process of drawing a bath, raised his eyebrows.

  The Inspector was not a happy man. His voice crackled noisily down the wire.

  ‘The Chief has got someone down from the Yard to look into Mr Scannon’s death. They don’t think we local yokels are up to a murder investigation – at least not when it concerns the death of a Member of Parliament and friend of the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Might I come and talk to you, Inspector? As you know, Mrs Harkness’s inquest is tomorrow so I have to be in your neck of the woods anyway. I know you will think I’m an interferin’ busybody but Mr Scannon was a . . . ’ he was going to say ‘friend’ but decided on ‘an acquaintance of mine.’ ‘And what’s more,’ he went on, ‘I have a hunch his death may be tied up in some way with Mrs Harkness’s.’

  ‘Ah,’ the Inspector gave an embarrassed cough, ‘I think I owe you some sort of explanation about that. Come and see me by all means. You’ll be staying at Mersham, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Inspector. My brother’s place is only forty minutes from Marlborough – less if I break a few speed limits.’

  ‘Ah, now, please don’t be doing that, my lord. When shall you be here, then? I should say there isn’t a great deal I can tell you but you’re very welcome to what information I’ve got.’

  Edward fancied the Inspector would have been less accommodating if his nose had not been put out. It must be galling to have had the chance to shine taken from him and handed to a Scotland Yard man.

  ‘Oh, by the way, my lord, I’d appreciate it if you would come on your own. Miss Browne’s a charming young lady but she’s a journalist for all that and, if it came out I had been playing favourites with members of the press, they’d have my guts for garters.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I quite understand,’ Edward said and rang off.

  Damn it! He would have to explain to Verity that her presence was not required. On the other hand, as an accredited member of the press, there was nothing he could do if she decided she wanted to attend the inquest. That was a public inquiry. He rang the New Gazette but she was not at her desk so he left a message that he would ring again about four.

  Verity was not at her desk because she was hunting big game: her boss, Lord Weaver. The editor of the paper, Mr Godber, hated Verity and resented her position as Weaver’s pet but there was nothing he could do about it except undermine her as much as he dared. Unfortunately for him, Weaver insisted on vetting the newspaper every day before it went to press, unless he was out of London, and had no hesitation in overruling the editor if he wanted greater prominence given to an article by one of his favourite journalists. It was unfair but there it was. Verity had long ago given up trying to sweet-talk the paper’s editor and now just ignored him.

  Somewhat unexpectedly, she had made a friend of Lord Weaver’s formidable secretary, Miss Barnstable, and had even been invited to call her by her Christian name, a privilege not extended to Lord Weaver who probably had no idea she even had a first name. Miss Barnstable had been highly suspicious of her at first but, quite fortuitously, Verity had been in a position to do her a favour. Miss Barnstable lived with her aged mother in a small house in Acton. The mother was a semi-invalid, with nothing to do all day but look out from behind the net curtains at her neighbours and devour romances penned by Ethel M. Dell, Marie Corelli and Florence B
arclay, obtained for her by her daughter from Boots’ library. She also adored periodicals such as Modern Woman and film magazines such as Screen Romances and Picturegoer. Every Saturday the two women would sally forth to the pictures and, for a couple of hours, Miss Barnstable would forget how lonely her life was, despite her busy and important position at the New Gazette, while her mother would imagine what it would be like to be abducted by an Arab sheikh and carried away on a camel or wooed by the oh-so-dashing Thin Man, William Powell.

  One evening, Miss Barnstable had casually mentioned to her mother that Lord Edward Corinth had been in the office to see her employer. Her mother, much to the daughter’s alarm, had reacted with delight verging on hysteria. She had read about Lord Edward and seen his photograph in the ‘society pages’ of the Sunday Pictorial. For a fortnight, Miss Barnstable was asked if ‘Lord Edward had been in today?’ until she got quite cross, reducing her mother to tears. She felt guilty at making her mother cry and, greatly daring, had asked Verity if Lord Edward would ever sign a photograph for her mother.

  ‘As though he were a film star?’ inquired Verity mirthfully but then, seeing how much it meant to Miss Barnstable and how difficult it had been for her to ask the favour, she said, ‘He can do better than that. If your mother would like it, I will bring him along to tea one day.’

  Edward was reluctant but, the promise having been made on his behalf, he felt he could not disappoint the old lady. One Saturday, the Lagonda drew up outside the little house – Verity had said there was no point being a lord if he did not bring his ‘flash car’. The tea was a great success. Edward was charming and Mrs Barnstable ecstatic. All her neighbours would know about her distinguished visitor and her pleasure made the whole effort worthwhile. Even Verity was forced to admit that, if having a lord to tea could bring an old lady so much simple pleasure, perhaps the class system had something to be said for it. The result was that Verity called Miss Barnstable ‘Val’ and she called Verity ‘Verity’ and if she wanted information on the activities or whereabouts of Lord Weaver, she had only to ask.