DAVID ROBERTS worked in publishing for over thirty years, most recently as a publishing director, before devoting his energies to writing full time. He is married and divides his time between London and Wiltshire.
Praise for David Roberts
Sweet Poison
‘A classic murder mystery with as complex a plot as one could hope for and a most engaging pair of amateur sleuths whom I look forward to encountering again in future novels.’
Charles Osbourne, author of
The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie
Bones of the Buried
‘Roberts’ use of period detail … gives the tale terrific texture. Recommend this one heartily.’
Booklist
Hollow Crown
‘The plots are exciting and the central characters are engaging, they offer a fresh, a more accurate and a more telling picture of those less than placid times.’
Sherlock
Dangerous Sea
‘Dangerous Sea is taken from more elegant times than ours, when women retained their mystery and even murder held a certain charm. The plot is both intricate and enthralling, like Poirot on the high seas, and lovingly recorded by an author with a meticulous eye and a huge sense of fun.’
Michael Dobbs, author of
Winston’s War and Never Surrender
Also by David Roberts
Bones of the Buried
Hollow Crown
Dangerous Sea
The More Deceived
A Grave Man
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2001
This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2002
Copyright © David Roberts 2001, 2002
The right of David Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN 1-84119-402-6
ISBN 978-1-84119-402-8
eISBN 978-1-78033-424-0
Printed and bound in the EU
10 9 8 7
For Jane
Sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth . . .
Shakespeare, King John
If you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
Contents
Prologue
1 Saturday Afternoon
2 Saturday Evening
3 Saturday Night
4 Sunday and Monday Morning
5 Monday Afternoon and Evening
6 Tuesday Evening
7 Saturday
8 Verity’s Monday
9 Edward’s Monday
10 Monday Evening
11 Tuesday
12 Wednesday
13 Wednesday Evening
14 Wednesday Evening
15 Thursday Morning
16 Thursday Afternoon
17 Thursday Evening and Friday
18 Friday Evening and Saturday
19 Saturday and After
20 Endings
Prologue
The Duke thrust aside his copy of The Times in disgust and stared up through the branches of the great copper beech under which he sat. A light wind agitated the leaves and tossed the discarded newspaper into the air so that several sheets lodged among the lower branches. The ancient and noble tree, which the Germans call a blood beech, creaked and groaned. The brittle leaves rustled and whispered. Shafts of white light, like burning arrows, pierced the shadow into which he had taken his deck chair and made him shield his eyes with his hand. August in England is often an unsettled month but this year, 1935, it had been unusually hot. The grass was browned and the river ran slow and sullen, stifled by weed.
The Duke had not been sleeping well, perhaps because of the heat but there were other reasons, and now his eyes closed, unable to withstand the bright sunlight. He drew out of his trouser pocket his red-spotted silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had been upset by what he had read in the newspaper and he had shut his eyes in the hope of forgetting but, as was now commonplace, his mind filled with nightmare images of his brother’s death all of twenty years ago. They were the more vivid because he had not himself witnessed it. He saw Franklyn, splendid in his uniform, leading his men towards a wood or maybe just a copse, he could not be sure. Then he saw ill-defined figures in grey kneeling around a metal tripod. They seemed to be feeding a long thin muzzle from below as one might milk a cow. His brother was running, waving his revolver in his right hand to urge on the men behind him. He was bare-headed. In these early days of war, steel helmets were not often worn and his cap had been snatched off his head by the wind or by a bullet as he began his charge. He never reached the trees. A few yards short of the wood he fell clumsily as though he had tripped over a furrow or stumbled on a mole hill. On the ground, he made absurd swimming movements before lying still. All about him other men were dropping down with the same gracelessness. At this moment, as was always the way of it, the Duke woke up choking with anxiety, the blood pounding in his head.
He struggled out of his canvas chair cursing and calling for his wife. ‘Connie! Connie! Where are you?’
‘I’m here, dear. What’s the matter?’ came her calm, cool voice from across the lawn and the Duke, still stupid with panic and fatigue, half ran towards the woman who alone made his life bearable.
‘What is it, my dear?’ she said as he came up to her. ‘You have upset yourself? Have you been having that dream again?’
The Duke hung his head shamefacedly. ‘I was sitting there reading the paper and thinking about the dinner tonight and I must have dozed off.’
‘And you started thinking of Frank?’
‘Yes, for the first time for a week. I thought I was really free of it but I suppose . . . well, the news from Germany unsettled me.’ He gripped his wife’s arm so hard it hurt but she made no sign. ‘That’s why it is so important to get these people talking. Frank cannot, must not, have died in vain. We must . . .’
‘I know, Gerald,’ said the Duchess gently, stroking his cheek, ‘I know. It will all go well tonight; don’t worry. Now, why don’t you go up to the house and go through the arrangements with Bates and make sure he’s clear about the wine.’
‘Yes, m’dear,’ said the Duke meekly. ‘Sorry, old thing. I’m afraid I got myself into a bit of a state.’
The Duke, much calmer now, walked slowly back towards the open French windows through which his wife had come to his rescue. She stood where he had left her, looking at his retreating form with something approaching dismay. She was afraid he was setting too much store by these dinners he had determined to host with the aim of fostering Anglo-German understanding. He had never got over his brother’s death in those first few days of the war and the guilt he felt at not himself having fought. He had so wanted to prove himself on the field of battle but his father had forbidden it. He had told his son that his disobedience would kill him. He had tortured himself ever after wondering if he had been a coward not to have defied his father and gone to France. It was this heavy burden, she knew, which made him dread
another war with Germany and he considered it his duty to do everything he could to prevent it.
At least the castle was looking at its most delectable for the distinguished guests. It had been built in Elizabethan times by a Swedish princess, one of the Virgin Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The long gravel drive broadened into a graceful sweep outside the great front door made of ancient oak and studded with iron nails. Through the door the visitor entered a hall created in the eighteenth century to replace the somewhat poky original entrance. This new hall, designed by Robert Adam in 1768, was of some considerable size, floored in black and white marble squares and encircled by a magnificent staircase. In the middle of the hall on a table stood a glorious arrangement of summer flowers which scented the whole house. High above, Adam had created a glass dome which matched the airy lightness of the castle to perfection. On the right of the hall there was the dining-room. A Holbein of an unknown man, possibly a relation of the princess who had built the house, hung above an Adam fireplace. Less happily, in the nineteenth century, French windows had been let into a bay for the convenience of those who might wish to step out on to the lawns without the bother of going through the hall. The drawing-room on the other side of the hall had been similarly defaced but there was no doubt that on a summer’s day such as this one it was delightful to feel, with the French windows thrown open, a gentle breeze dissipate the stale air of afternoon heat. This was Connie’s domain. She did not for one moment consider herself to be the castle’s owner; she was merely – if it could ever be considered ‘merely’ – its chatelaine. Standing on the lawn, she raised her eyes to the castle battlements. They shimmered insubstantial in the early afternoon sun. The castle for all its parapets and embrasures was a confection with the defensive capability of a wedding cake. It pretended to be what it was not. The ancient honey-coloured stone, somnolent in the sun, dreamed not of war but of masques and plays, courtiers and their ladies. It stood, like England itself, unprepared for conflict of any sort – in sleepy forgetfulness of its own history.
1
Saturday Afternoon
Lord Edward Corinth deplored unpunctuality. He pressed down his foot on the accelerator pedal and smiled to himself as he felt the Lagonda Rapier respond. He had only taken delivery of the elegant two-seater three weeks before and he had spent that time lovingly bringing its four-and-a-half-litre six-cylinder engine up to its peak. Now fully run-in, this was his first opportunity of putting it through its paces. The colour of whipped cream, the Lagonda sped along the Great West Road like some latter-day Pegasus. Soon, London was left behind. Sooted houses and modern factories gave way to countryside punctuated by the occasional roadhouse, but Edward had no time or inclination to tarry. He had to reach Mersham Castle by seven thirty at the latest if he didn’t want to bring down upon his head the wrath of Gerald, his older brother and Duke of Mersham, and it was already after six. He urged the great car along the empty road, feeling the wind in his face, relishing the beat of the powerful engine. He loved speed and this was equal to anything except flying itself. He had learnt to fly in Africa and the sensation of being at one with the elements, swooping above herds of impala and kudu on the Masai Mara, came vividly back to him. Handling this supreme achievement of modern automobile engineering engendered in him the same ecstasy he had felt swinging above the African plains in his flimsy aeroplane tied together with string – a tiny dot against a vast blue canvas of sky – at one and the same time totally insignificant and a god.
Once he turned the Lagonda on to country roads the going was slower. He glanced at his watch. Damn it, he was going to be very late and Gerald would look at him in that special way he had when he was displeased, pulling his moustache and wrinkling his brows. Against his better judgment, Edward had agreed to attend one of his brother’s infernal dinners where he would have to make himself pleasant to pompous politicians and stuffy civil servants. It was not his idea of a lively evening and he had at first refused, pointing out that on no account could he let the Cherrypickers down. The Cherrypickers were all friends of his, Old Etonians for the most part like himself, who played cricket against similar clubs all over the south of England. On this occasion they were playing a strong side at Richmond and he had every intention of carrying his bat for his team. However, Gerald had sounded so desperate when he had said he could not come that he had weakened and then given way. The Duke’s invitation became even less appealing when he explained why he was begging for his younger brother’s presence.
‘I know it’s not your sort of thing, Ned, and I apologize for inviting you at the last minute like this. The fact of the matter is, I’m in a bit of a hole. I have invited Lord Weaver, the newspaper owner – you know who I mean?’
‘I know who you mean,’ Edward had replied tartly. ‘I may not dine with the nobs on a regular basis like you, Gerald, but I am not a complete ostrich. He owns the New Gazette, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, and several other papers as well.’
‘And why do you need me to entertain him?’
‘Well, I don’t need you to entertain him, Ned. The thing is, he has a perfectly charming wife and a rather difficult stepdaughter that the wife is insisting on bringing with her. Apparently, she tries not to let her out of her sight.’
‘And I’m to be nanny to the poisonous stepdaughter, is that it?’
‘Yes. I know it’s asking a lot, Ned, but you have to help me.’
‘She’s called Hermione, isn’t she? I have met her a couple of times before.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
‘I said I have met her, Gerald. That doesn’t mean I ever want to meet her again. Doesn’t she have a young man? I seem to remember seeing her entwined with a nasty piece of work by the name of Charlie Lomax when I bumped into her at the Fellowes’ ball.’
‘That’s right. I invited him at the mother’s request but the blighter dropped out an hour ago without a decent excuse. I couldn’t think what else to do except telephone you.’
‘Thank you, Gerald! That was very well put.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. My acquaintance with bright young things is rather limited. Please, Ned, you must come.’
‘Oh well, I suppose so,’ said Edward unwillingly. He was fond of his elder brother and loved Connie, his sister-in-law. He guessed she did not have an easy time of it with the Duke, who acted at least ten years older than his real age which was forty-one. ‘Mind you, I may have to cut it a bit tight because I can’t let the Cherrypickers down.’
‘Well, try not to be late, Ned. This dinner is more important than a cricket match.’
‘More important than cricket,’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Pshaw! I say, Gerald . . .’ but the Duke had replaced the receiver. He was not enthusiastic about the telephone and associated its use – along with telegrams – with unpleasantness of one sort or another.
Edward persuaded himself that if the Cherrypickers elected to field first and then bat he would knock up a respectable thirty or even forty as opening bat and be on his way to Mersham by four-thirty at the latest. It was not to be. On his day he was a passable spin bowler and a first-class bat. When, after breaking for lunch, he had stood at the crease, resplendent in his white flannels, he had known from the first ball tossed at him that he could do no wrong. That very first ball he had knocked for six and thereafter he never faltered. It was not until, tired but triumphant, he had walked back to the pavilion raising his bat to acknowledge the applause, not out one hundred and five, that he had any idea of how much time had passed. Brushing aside invitations to celebrate a famous victory he had grabbed his clothes, thrown his bag into the back of the Lagonda and raced out of London, part of him still elated by his record-beating innings and part furious with himself for thinking he could combine an afternoon of perfect cricket with a dinner-party at Mersham Castle in Hampshire, a good two and a half hours away.
Edward was not quite the empty-headed pleasure-seeker his brother supposed him to be. He was intellectually his brother�
�s superior but he liked to disguise his intelligence below a veneer of flippancy. Since coming down from Cambridge he had not found any employment to his taste though he had been tempted by the diplomatic service. He had plenty of money and very little patience so he was not cut out for office work. His restlessness had found an outlet in travel to the most outlandish corners of the world and an addiction to any sport which promised danger. He had an idea, which he had never put into words, that pleasure had to be earned through pain but the life he led, so active but essentially purposeless, did not altogether satisfy him. He knew himself well enough to realize he was looking for something which would test every sinew and brain cell and give his life meaning.
In 1914, when his eldest brother Frank had died trying to take a machine gun emplacement with only courage to set against a murderous hail of bullets, he had still been a schoolboy. He had hardly known his brother, now a dead hero, but he saw the effect his death had on his father and on his other brother Gerald, and he mourned. Though Gerald might not recognize it, Edward had a passionate hatred of war the equal of his own but he did not share Gerald’s belief that a new, even more horrible war could be avoided by a series of dinner-parties, however influential the guests.
Edward had asked who, along with the Weavers, was coming to the castle for this particular dinner to drink the Duke’s excellent wine and eat his food and talk about how to make a lasting peace in Europe. ‘Well, it’s not an ordinary dinner-party,’ the Duke told him. ‘It was the men I wanted but of course, where there are female appendages, I have invited them too. There will be twelve of us altogether. There’s Sir Alistair Craig . . .’ Craig was an old friend of the family. He had commanded Franklyn’s regiment in 1914 when he was already a distinguished soldier – a VC, no less. He had now retired but was said still to wield a lot of influence at Horse Guards. Peter Larmore was also coming with his long-suffering wife. Edward knew him slightly and knew his reputation as a ladies’ man. Brilliant but unsound, he was a rising politician – a Conservative – who, it was forecast, would soon be a member of the new Prime Minister’s cabinet if he did not blot his copy book.
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