‘No, and the Bishop – he’s a good man. He’s a great friend of Tommie’s, did you know? They do good works together.’
‘So who does that leave?’
‘Well, there’s Lord Weaver, a capitalist if ever there was one.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Edward, ‘and therefore a natural ally of the General’s, surely. Would he, even if he wanted to murder someone, choose to do it at the Duke’s table in front of his wife and stepdaughter?’
‘Probably not,’ Verity agreed reluctantly. ‘Don’t forget Hermione,’ she said, cheering up. ‘She was leaning over him as he drank his port and she seemed the most shocked of all of us by what happened. Still, I don’t see how she could have put poison in the General’s glass without anyone seeing.’
‘And remember, she was not in the dining-room when the men were drinking their port. She came in with the other ladies when we arrived.’
‘Yes, and surely if she had poisoned the port she would have known what to expect and would have been less shocked than the rest of us?’ said Verity.
‘Hard to say. She might have done it on a whim and then been horrified by what she had done. Still, it does seem unlikely, and unlikely that she would have been clever enough to have dropped the capsule in the General’s glass without anyone noticing.’
‘More to the point,’ said Verity, ‘what possible motive could she have? I can’t see how her path and the General’s could have ever crossed.’
Edward and Verity looked at each other in dismay. At last Edward said, ‘It looks as if we’re barking up the wrong tree. There seems to be no reason why anyone who could have murdered the General would have wanted to.’
‘So have we argued ourselves out of investigating?’
Edward said, ‘Not quite, but no one must know that we are investigating. We would be a laughing-stock if people suspected it and possibly alarm the murderer should he exist.’
‘Well, I vote we have a casual conversation with each of the possibles and then reconsider. For instance, there would be no problem about talking to the Bishop. We could easily find an excuse. We could say we are interested in his Peace Pledge Union.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Edward.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? Everyone from whatever party is going to be urged to join together to promise not to go to war and try and persuade governments to pledge themselves to peace too.’
‘Would you join it?’ inquired Edward interestedly.
‘Of course not,’ said Verity scornfully. ‘Haven’t you been listening? We are going to have to fight the Fascists one day and this sort of wishy-washy Utopianism just weakens people’s resolve.’
Edward was impressed. ‘And you could accept Friedberg’s invitation to go out to dinner with him,’ he said slowly.
Verity blushed. ‘Ugh! I hated that man on sight but yes, I suppose he did seem to like me.’
‘More than that, I’d say,’ said Edward, annoyed with himself for minding.
‘I could do a bit of vamping, I suppose.’
‘You are very good at it. Think how you charmed all of us.’
Verity flushed again, this time in anger. She did feel guilty at tricking the Duchess but she did not want Edward criticizing her. ‘You make me sound a scheming bitch,’ she said.
Edward, shocked at her language, realized that what he had meant as a rather clumsy joke had given offence. ‘I am sorry, Verity. Please forgive me. I did not mean to imply . . . It would be too dangerous anyway. Just because we don’t like Nazis, we should not underestimate them. They are not fools.’
‘Oh, stow it,’ she said crossly. ‘We’ll think how to get to Weaver. We need some excuse to talk to him.’
‘I know,’ said Edward. ‘That ghastly girl Hermione seems to have got a crush on me for no good reason. I could be really underhand and get to know her and then her father. Kill two birds with one stone – oops, sorry!’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Verity. ‘If you are as underhand and skulduggerous as me then I won’t feel so bad!’
‘Done,’ said Edward, paying the bill. ‘Now, let’s leave it at that for the moment. Telephone me if you can arrange for us to see the Bishop without arousing suspicion.’
‘Yes, and I will try to get an invitation to go out with the horrible German. God, I will have some explaining to do if the comrades ever find out.’
‘No, I don’t think you ought to; I think it would be too dangerous. If anyone ought to talk to Friedberg it should be me.’
‘As dangerous as involving yourself with Hermione Weaver?’
‘I will risk it with Hermione,’ Edward said grimly.
As the waiter helped them into their coats Edward glimpsed himself and the girl in the mirrored wall: Verity solemn, determined, her seriousness betrayed only by the red feather in her little hat which she wore on the side of her head; he, lean and tanned with the glossy look of a young man-about-town who has never had to worry where his next dinner was coming from. He thought they made an enigmatic couple. What had they got in common – the young lordling and the intense, politically aware young woman? She had guts – he had to admit – and a gaiety of spirit which belied her gloomy prognostications. In a world where women in politics were often thought absurd and ‘unfeminine’, he found her a refreshing alternative to the silly, languid girls whom he met at balls and in country houses and whose conversation was restricted to horses and dogs or the next party.
Verity held out her hand to him. ‘No need to get me a taxi. I live close enough to walk and the fresh air will do me good, and before you ask, I would rather walk alone.’ She softened her admonition with a smile. ‘Thank you for dinner. I will telephone you in a day or two to report progress, if any.’
‘How do you know my number?’
‘For one thing, you gave me your card when we first met behind that hay wagon. I knew I had an idiot to deal with when you gave me your address and telephone number within seconds of meeting.’
‘And the second thing?’ said Edward crossly.
‘The second thing? Oh, well, I suppose Tommie Fox has it, hasn’t he?’
He watched her disappear into the crowd, for Soho was only just beginning to wake up for the night’s pleasures, and he half-hailed a cab before telling himself if Verity could walk, so could he. Albany was only fifteen minutes away. Then he clicked his fingers in annoyance. He had never got her to give him her address or telephone number. What sort of sleuth did that make him? Feeling rather a chump he turned towards Piccadilly. His knee hardly hurt him and he thought after all he might be up to a little dancing. He would ring Hermione.
6
Tuesday Evening
Edward felt a bit of a cad. Hermione was obviously besotted with him and when he had rung to suggest an evening at the Four Hundred she had responded with embarrassing enthusiasm. ‘But not the Four Hundred. That’s frightfully old-fashioned now. The place to go is the Cocoanut Grove – you know, in Regent Street.’ Hermione sounded brittle and over-eager but, as he reminded himself, the telephone strangled the voice so maybe it was just her excitement.
Edward’s worst fears were realized at ten o’clock that evening after dinner at the Savoy, when he escorted Hermione to the Cocoanut Grove, a jungle in more ways than one. They descended a narrow staircase, a fire hazard if ever he had seen one, to a gigantic dance room got up like some film producer’s vision of King Kong’s natural habitat. Pillars sprouted green fronds and the walls were adorned with fanciful paintings of tropical islands, volcanoes and palm trees. In one corner of the room there was a large glass tank filled with water in which a few depressed-looking fish swum round and round as if they knew they ought not to be there. The dance floor was already crowded with men in evening dress and women in exotic gowns, silk and chiffon, and much jewellery. It was everything that Edward hated. The temperature was already in the high seventies and the band, performing from inside what appeared to be a log cabin, were sweating visibly.
‘Oh, how priceless,�
�� said Hermione as they were led to a small table near the aquarium. ‘See, that one looks exactly like Charlie Lomax.’ She pointed to a flat fish covered in black and white spots.
‘You don’t like that character any more? Your mother thinks you are in love with him.’
‘With Charlie Lomax?’ said Hermione in mock amazement. ‘He can be quite amusing, I suppose, but just lately he has been a terrible bore.’
The waiter brought champagne and Edward, very uncomfortable on his little gilt chair, said, ‘Shall we dance, Hermione?’
‘Yes, let’s, darling,’ said the girl, getting up with alacrity. Edward was beginning to feel that he might have done better to have kept his relationship with Hermione quite formal. He had thought, when talking about it to Verity, it might be easier to ask the girl if she had killed General Craig as they chatted gaily in some pleasant night spot but he had not visualized the full horror of the Cocoanut Grove. Even alcohol in considerable quantities did not seem to be lifting his leaden spirits, and to add to his gloom his knee had begun to hurt. He had put himself in what he recognized to be a false position in regard to Hermione. It was rather shabby making this girl believe he cared about her when really he was aching to be rid of her. He tried to ignore the way she hung on his arm as they danced and how she buried her head on his shoulder whenever the music allowed. Fortunately, at this early hour of the evening the music was lively if rather noisy.
‘Miss Weaver,’ said a voice behind Edward.
‘Oh hello, Captain Gordon,’ said Hermione, a little nervously Edward thought. ‘Edward, this is Captain Gordon who manages the Cocoanut Grove. Captain Gordon, this is Lord Edward Corinth.’
The Captain looked rather taken aback. ‘Lord Edward – I am delighted to see you here. I hope you are enjoying yourself.’ He turned back to Hermione. ‘Miss Weaver, there’s a friend of yours coming in later. He wanted me to tell you because apparently you have something for him.’
‘A friend? Oh yes, thank you,’ said Hermione vaguely, not asking who the friend was who was so eager to speak to her. Captain Gordon seemed to take the hint because he slipped away without further comment.
‘Gosh, did you see how impressed he was that you were my partner, Edward?’ said Hermione, pink-faced but triumphant. ‘He can’t try anything on with you beside me.’
‘What might he want to “try on”?’ he inquired.
‘I don’t know but they are all such crooks,’ she said distractedly.
They ordered some Chinese food to pick at. They were not hungry but Hermione said the club was famous for its oriental dishes, which seemed rather odd to Edward given its jungle theme. They danced again, drank more champagne, but still Edward could not bring himself to raise the subject of General Craig’s death. It did not seem appropriate somehow and in any case the noise of the band and the dancing couples was too great for sensible conversation. Edward cursed himself for not having asked his question while they were at the Savoy but then he had felt constrained by good manners not to make it too obvious why he had invited her out. If he immediately embarked on his ‘investigation’ before they had begun to get to know each other she would almost certainly have clammed up or even stormed out of the restaurant. He understood now why Sherlock Holmes had, for the most part, restricted his inquisitions to his consulting rooms. On his own territory he could perhaps have spoken with more authority than in a beastly, showy night-club.
He looked around him for a way of escape but saw none. The women at neighbouring tables looked cheap and he wondered how many of them were ‘professionals’. The men were pasty-faced monkeys jumping across the dance floor, throwing their partners about in some desperate imitation of gaiety. Whoa! he warned himself. He must not let his mood spoil the evening for his partner but he was too late.
‘You’re not enjoying this, are you?’ Hermione suddenly demanded.
‘Oh no, please, of course I am enjoying myself,’ he said hastily. ‘Let’s dance again. Isn’t this a rumba?’
‘No, look, the cabaret is starting. The singer they have got is all the rage. Afterwards, then we’ll go. I’m not sure I like this place as much as I thought either.’
She was right. Captain Gordon was climbing on to the little stage in front of the log cabin. He almost slipped and fell and Edward guessed his genial host had been drinking. When he had settled himself he announced that they were privileged to have with them tonight the American singing star – ‘the toast of Broadway’ – Amy Pageant. Edward had never heard of her and the polite applause suggested that neither had anyone else, but when she came forward out of the log cabin and began to sing Cole Porter and Gershwin he was bowled over. She had a low husky voice which spoke of regret and lost love in a way which appealed to him in his melancholy. She was also very beautiful. The lights had been dimmed and the singer was encircled by a ring of white light which followed her as she moved around the tiny stage so that her oval face above naked shoulders, ivory in the spotlight, drew every eye.
She sang ‘The Man I Love’ as if she were at confession but what reduced Edward to pulp was her rendering of ‘How’s Your Romance?’ from Cole Porter’s Gay Divorce, a show he had seen three times when it had been on in London a couple of years before. He was transfixed by the singer’s honesty which seemed to make each song sound as if she was making it up as she went along in order to give voice to her own thoughts. He hardly noticed that Hermione was trying to get his attention. ‘Let’s go,’ she was muttering. ‘Come on, I want to go.’
‘In a moment, wait a moment,’ he mumbled, pushing her hand away. Nothing would distract him from gazing at Amy Pageant. Her lustrous black eyes seemed to search him out in the darkness. He knew it was nonsense, but he was bewitched. Hermione was getting more and more agitated and began to pull at his arm so that even through his pleasure he was becoming annoyed. Really, the girl was very tiresome. Why couldn’t she let him alone to concentrate on this astonishing woman? When the singer finished Edward stood up and applauded vigorously, not something he had ever done before in a night-club. He normally hated making a spectacle of himself but on this occasion he was too excited to worry what anyone else thought.
As couples began to return to the dance floor, many throwing him amused glances as they did so, he turned to apologize to Hermione only to find that she had vanished. He wondered if she had gone to ‘powder her nose’ but when after ten minutes she had not come back he strolled across the room and asked one of the waiters where the ladies’ cloakroom was. He was directed towards the corner of the room. He pushed through a swing door and walked down a dimly lit corridor. When he arrived at the end of it he found a door marked ‘Powder Room’. He was rather at a loss to know what to do. He could not barge in to see if she were there and risk causing a scandal, or could he? After a minute or two when no one went in or came out he knocked and called Hermione’s name. There was no answer so he opened the door a crack and peered in. The room was quite empty but the furniture was scattered about as if there had been a tussle.
Edward returned to the dance room mystified and a little alarmed, hoping to see that Hermione had returned to their table, but not only was she not there but two strangers were sitting where they had sat. He was going to remonstrate with them but then thought better of it and went off to find Captain Gordon. That gentleman he ran to earth in a little office just off the dance room. He was drinking whisky and looked as though he had been doing so for some time. He was not pleased to see Edward but, perhaps remembering that he was the brother of a duke and might be good for attracting high-class clientele, tried to put on a welcoming smile.
‘Whisky, Lord Edward?’ he slurred, waving an almost empty bottle at him.
‘No, thank you. I say, have you seen the girl I was with? She seems to have disappeared.’ He felt every kind of ass admitting as much but what else could he do?
‘Miss Weaver? I thought I saw her with Mr Lomax during the cabaret. Maybe she has left you in the lurch,’ he said insolently.
‘Maybe,’ Edward said, trying to remain civil. ‘Can we find out?’
Captain Gordon smiled derisively and spoke into a telephone which seemed to connect with the front door. He said, ‘Caspar, will you come down to my office, please.’ He turned to Edward. ‘You may have noticed Caspar as you came in. He’s our doorman and “chucker-out”.’
Edward had. He was a gorilla of a man with a face like a cauliflower.
‘Ah, Caspar,’ said the Captain as the doorman arrived, huge in the tiny office, ‘Lord Edward Corinth wonders if you have seen his lady friend leave without him.’
‘Yus, sur,’ said the gorilla. ‘She got into a taxi along with Mr Lomax. She gave me a note, sur, for the gentleman.’ He dipped his ham of a hand into his pocket and came out with a crumpled piece of paper. Edward grabbed it. In smudged, childish handwriting Hermione had written, ‘Sorry. Have to go. See you, H.’
‘She gave you this as she left the club?’ Edward demanded.
‘Yus, sur.’
‘So why did you not give it to me earlier?’
‘She only juss give it me,’ Caspar said, aggrieved. ‘Anyways, she said to give it you when you asked.’
‘I see,’ said Edward who certainly did not see. ‘Well, thank you.’ He gave the man half a crown. It really was a bit thick being left by a girl like this even if she was as unstable as Hermione Weaver.
‘Deuced bad luck – losing the gel like that,’ said Captain Gordon, a touch of derision audible beneath his unexceptionable words. ‘Like the club?’ he inquired fatuously as Edward stood silent.
Edward roused himself to answer with an effort. ‘Very nice, a jungle in every way.’ As he turned to leave the place, he added, ‘Amy Pageant – she’s something special. Where did you find her?’
‘She’s good, isn’t she? Too good for us really, but she’s doing a favour for the owner – or the other way round, I’m not sure which.’
‘And who is he?’ said Edward casually.
Sweet Poison Page 13
