Sweet Poison

by David Roberts

‘Shouldn’t really tell you, I suppose, but seeing you’re a friend of the family in a manner of speaking I expect it’s all right: Lord Weaver – he owns the Cocoanut Grove.’

  7

  Saturday

  Verity was too busy at the Daily Worker for a couple of days to pursue investigations into the death of General Craig, which in any case, she was inclined to think, were going to be a waste of time. She did not believe that the old man had died by accident but when it came down to it, how was she, a paid-up member of the Communist Party and therefore an object of suspicion to the police and most respectable middle-class Englishmen, going to prove it? She had no faith in the efficacy of Lord Edward Corinth, a sprig of a ducal house and by definition – at least by her definition – of no use to man or dog.

  On Wednesday morning she found herself by chance very close to Tommie Fox’s parish church in Kilburn. She liked Tommie – a thoroughly good man by any standards – but normally they argued so fiercely about politics as to make close friendship an impossibility. Tommie was not a Communist. He called himself a Christian Socialist and he believed that at bottom all men were good. He considered it was his duty, as he put it, ‘to mobilize ordinary men and women for peace’. To Verity this was daft, and she told him so.

  Running him to earth in the church hall she found the man of God wielding a paint brush against a huge sheet of card on which he was inscribing a slogan.

  ‘Is this for Saturday’s march through London?’ asked Verity, craning her neck to read what he was painting. ‘“Christian Socialists for Peace”,’ she read aloud. ‘Rubbish! Men aren’t peaceable by nature, not even Socialist Christians. For God’s sake, Tommie, surely history teaches us that if nothing else. Tribal warfare has always existed and always will. Tribes will attempt to dominate other tribes to distract their own people from dwelling on their woes and fighting among themselves. If you can blame someone else for the rotten time you are having you won’t blame the government. Simple. Look at the Christian Church: it has been responsible for more tribal conflict than any other movement. Didn’t Christ say something like “I bring not peace but a sword”?’

  ‘That’s very cynical, Verity,’ said Tommie, giving her a kiss on the cheek, ‘and please don’t use God’s name as a swear word. I have asked you before. I believe it is precisely your type of cheap cynicism which leads to war. If you expect the worst of people that’s what you’ll get. Bishop Haycraft is absolutely right in calling for everyone of all political and religious creeds to join together to march for peace. It’s going to be the most democratic movement of all time.’ Tommie waved his hands in the air in excitement. ‘We’ll show all those tired, corrupt politicians that they have to listen to the people for once. How I hate men like that horrible Peter Larmore, but even he believes that we should extend the hand of brotherhood to Germany and right her wrongs.’

  ‘Larmore? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘You didn’t hear him on the wireless last night calling for Britain to play the honest broker between France and Germany? I did. It was inspirational. I must admit I had him down as simply another of those corrupt cronies of Baldwin’s but it looks as if I was wrong and proves my point that even the least promising among us has some good in him – or her,’ he added meaningly. ‘The next thing, we will hear Baldwin saying he is going to lead the only fight worth fighting: the fight for European peace.’

  ‘Stop preaching at me, Tommie, will you? Let me think – Haycraft? He was at the dinner at the Duke’s when that poor old man was killed.’

  ‘The warmonger General, you mean? The Bishop told me all about that. I can’t say I am too sad about it even if I’m not being very Christian. The man was notorious for his hatred of all things German. If he had had his way we would have invaded Germany as soon as they started talking about altering the terms of the Versailles treaty.’

  ‘So will Haycraft be on this march for peace on Saturday?’

  ‘He certainly will,’ said Tommie warmly. ‘He’s one of its leaders. What about you? I gather the Communists have not made their mind up if they will take part. Still waiting for instructions from Moscow, no doubt.’

  ‘Oh, do put a sock in it, Tommie,’ said Verity crossly. ‘Of course the Communist Party will be represented. We are the party for peace, in case you have forgotten it.’

  ‘Well, see you at Speakers’ Corner then,’ said Tommie mildly, going back to making his banner.

  That Saturday, the first in September, was as warm as any day in August and there was a carnival atmosphere in the crowd which began to gather at the top of Park Lane as early as nine o’clock. There was much laughter and greeting of friends. Banners and slogan-bearing posters attached to makeshift boards and poles were compared: ‘Peace with Honour’, ‘Disarm for Peace’, ‘Pledged to Peace’. Most of those who were to march saw themselves as liberals but they represented a broad spectrum of opinion only excluding the far right and the far left. The Communist Party had to Verity’s disappointment and puzzlement decided Party members should have no part in bourgeois protest movements, but she and a few like-minded CP members decided to risk censure and march.

  At eleven thirty, after several bracing speeches, the crowd gradually sorted itself into ranks and followed their leaders into Park Lane under the escort of a small force of Metropolitan Police officers. Verity walked with friends and fellow activists towards the rear of the parade. Tommie was near the front with Cecil Haycraft and three other bishops who were not afraid to take a stance on what many people felt was a political issue but Haycraft believed was a moral imperative. Their object was the Prime Minister’s residence in Downing Street where the leaders of the march would hand in a petition demanding international disarmament. It took almost three hours for the slow-moving procession to reach its destination. The marchers brought Piccadilly to a standstill, despite the best efforts of the police, before turning right into St James’s Street where old men in their clubs looked out of the windows, their moustaches twitching with indignation and apprehension. Was this the revolution, they wondered? But this was not a march against poverty and unemployment: the economy was picking up at last, at least in the south of England, and these marchers posed no threat to the representatives of capitalism or even to the landed aristocracy slumbering in their leather armchairs.

  At Downing Street the petition was handed in, more speeches were made and then the march began to break down into small groups of friends and allies unwilling to go home immediately. Some stood about on street corners, others packed Lyons and ABC tea-rooms. Verity found herself near Tommie who invited her to come along with him and a few others to the Star and Garter just over Westminster Bridge. ‘I worked in a boys’ club near there when I was first a curate and I used to have a pint there afterwards to congratulate myself on surviving.’ He laughed but Verity suddenly realized what a good man Tommie was. He made fun of himself – a do-gooder trying to alleviate some of the worst effects of poverty but constantly seeing his achievements washed away by the sheer scale of the problem. When she said something to him about admiring his work, he said, ‘Oh, chuck it, Verity. I don’t know if I do any good. Maybe I ought not to try and make the intolerable tolerable.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, some of the suffering I have witnessed among the poor in slums literally in sight of the Houses of Parliament would make your hair curl. And yet, you know, they might be in the heart of Africa for all most MPs care. I think it is the indifference of the well-to-do rather than the ingratitude of the people we try to help which hurts the most.’

  ‘But surely,’ said Verity weakly, ‘the Salvation Army . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, the Sally Army do wonderful work and there are other good people like Dr Barnardo’s but it’s all a drop in the ocean. We really need a complete change to our system.’

  ‘That’s what I tell you,’ said Verity indignantly. ‘The political system is rotten to the core.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tommy levelly,
‘but I’m not sure your people would make it any better.’

  ‘My people . . . ?’ began Verity when a voice said, ‘It’s Miss Browne, isn’t it?’

  The Bishop of Worthing, Cecil Haycraft, was at her side. ‘Oh yes, hello, Bishop, I didn’t think you would recognize me.’

  ‘Of course I recognize you. I may be a happily married bishop but I still notice attractive girls. I hope that’s not a sin.’

  To her annoyance Verity blushed. She hoped he wasn’t going to be tiresome but it did give her an opportunity for some subtle questioning. However, before she could begin he said, ‘Still writing for Country Life?’

  Tommie guffawed and Verity blushed again. ‘I am afraid I have to confess that I never did write for Country Life. I occasionally write for the Daily Worker.’

  ‘I had a feeling you might not be exactly what you seemed,’ the Bishop said unmoved.

  ‘How do you mean: “what I seemed”?’

  ‘Fluffy, empty-headed, garrulous . . .’ Haycraft answered without hesitation. ‘By the way, are you D. F. Browne’s daughter?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘No, not really,’ the Bishop replied. ‘We come across each other on committees of one sort and another. Do you consider yourself to be a Communist?’

  ‘I am a fully paid-up member of the Party,’ said Verity stoutly, not wanting there to be any further excuse for the Bishop to think she was ‘something she was not’.

  By this time they had reached the pub Tommie knew and they all filed through the frosted glass doors and went to the bar – dirty-looking and ringed with the marks of wet beer mugs. Verity saw that the Bishop was determined to seem quite at home in a public house though she had a feeling that in his heart of hearts he would have preferred not to be there.

  ‘What’ll you have, Cecil?’ said Tommie chummily. Obviously, off duty the Bishop liked to be ‘one of the boys’.

  ‘Pint, please, Tommie, but hey, let me do this.’

  ‘No,’ said Tommie, ‘this is my round. Even on my salary I can afford a pint of beer now and again or else life’s not worth living. Verity, a lemonade?’

  ‘No, a pint, please, Tommie.’ Why would these men – these good men – patronize her all the time, she asked herself? She was just as politically effective as any of them and probably a lot more ruthless. If only she didn’t blush so easily.

  ‘Tell me, Bishop –’ she began.

  ‘Cecil, please, Verity. I hate formality except on formal occasions.’

  Verity wasn’t quite sure she was ready yet to call the Bishop ‘Cecil’. She was used – and indeed, despite being a Communist, happy – to call men of her father’s age ‘sir’. She ploughed on: ‘What do you make of this new spirit of German nationalism? My father says it is Prussian imperialism with added savagery.’

  ‘I agree with him. It is frightening and I detest the Nazis’ emphasis on racial pride and “pure Nordic birth”, but I do not despair of teaching Mr Hitler the error of his ways. If the League of Nations is united in telling Germany that it just won’t do kicking up such a fuss in the world when they can get everything they want by reasonable discussion –’

  ‘Everything they want?’ broke in Tommie, returning with a tin tray on which stood three frothing tankards. ‘I should hope not “everything”, Cecil. I saw the BUF march through the East End and it made my stomach turn over, I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Bishop, ‘no need to worry. Mosley’s a buffoon.’ He laughed heartily at his feeble pun. Behind him three toughs who had been listening got up from their stools and came over. One of them tapped the Bishop on the shoulder.

  ‘I hope, mister, I did not hear you aright. Wus you sayin’ things against our leader?’

  ‘Look,’ said Tommie unwisely, ‘will you clear off? We are having a private conversation.’

  ‘Youse a clerical gentleman?’ said one of the other toughs, seeing his white collar partly hidden under his jersey and tweed jacket.

  ‘That’s nothing to do with you,’ said Tommie, sitting himself down. ‘Clear off, you’re not wanted here.’

  ‘Not until you say Sir Oswald Mosley is a good fellow.’

  ‘I shall say nothing of the sort. He is, as my friend said a moment ago, a buffoon.’

  Without further ado one of the toughs seized Tommie by the arm and tried to propel him across the room. The other two looked at Verity and the Bishop threateningly and Verity, on an impulse, threw her beer in the face of one of them – she hadn’t really wanted to drink it anyhow. As the poor man she had assaulted tried, cursing vigorously, to wipe the beer out of his eyes, she got up and crossed over to help Tommie. But Tommie did not need any help; he had boxed for his school and for Cambridge and he dispatched his assailant with a blow to the jaw of considerable force, knocking him to the ground. The other two toughs, who had been about to join the fray, now looked worried.

  ‘Hey,’ one of them said, ‘what did you want to go and do that for?’

  Tommie, really angry, was an impressive sight. He squared up to the two of them and said, ‘I say Mosley is a buffoon. Want to make anything of it?’

  The Bishop was looking rather nervous: ‘Look, I say, Tommie, that’s enough. Here, you men – here’s half a sovereign. Take your friend off and let’s hear no more of this.’

  The publican, who had been pretending not to see what was happening, took courage and came over and added his voice to the Bishop’s. ‘Clear off, will you – attacking my customers – I won’t have it. Now beat it or I’ll call the rozzers.’

  The three members of the British Union of Fascists, seeing they were facing overwhelming odds, departed muttering oaths, the man Tommie had knocked to the floor distinctly unsteady on his feet. Tommie was triumphant. ‘Another pint, Verity? Your tankard is empty but I can’t say you wasted your first.’

  ‘No,’ said Verity, feeling a little weak now the adrenalin was on the ebb. ‘I think I’ll have a ginger beer shandy.’

  The Bishop said, ‘Well done, Tommie. You are a useful man to have around in a scrap but I’m glad it’s over. I had a horrid feeling Miss Browne here might be reporting “Bishop in bar-room brawl” in a moment. We can’t give her too many scoops, can we?’

  Verity was silent. The Bishop was making it clear that he had known all along that she was behind the story in the Daily Worker of the General’s murder.

  At last she said, ‘Bishop, I wanted to ask you – do you think that General Craig killed himself accidentally?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he countered.

  ‘Well, it seemed to me and to Lord Edward that it was quite unlikely that he would have confused the capsule of cyanide with his painkillers. For one thing they’re a different shape. The morphine pills are small and round while the cyanide capsule was probably glass and oblong and rather larger.’

  ‘I see,’ said Haycraft. ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘Yes, and while the pill – the painkiller, I mean – need only be swallowed, the capsule would have to be broken into the liquid or between the teeth.’

  ‘In other words, it would have to be done deliberately?’

  ‘Yes. You didn’t see anything, I suppose?’

  ‘Did I see anyone murder the General? No, I did not. If I had done of course I would have mentioned it to the police,’ he added with a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Verity. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to be rude. Anyway, why should anyone want to kill the old man? You know he was mortally ill with stomach cancer?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ said the Bishop. ‘Poor man. When you say mortally ill . . . ?’

  ‘His doctor had given him only a few weeks to live – at least that’s what Dr Best says.’

  ‘Hmf,’ said the Bishop. ‘A terminal case of life exhaustion,’ he added slowly, and Verity had no idea if he intended some sort of joke or if it was meant seriously.

  Changing the subject, Verity said, ‘Might I ask you something, Bishop? Do you th
ink churchmen like yourself have a special duty to speak out on issues such as disarmament or just the duty of any ordinary citizen in a democracy to make their voice heard?’

  ‘It’s an interesting question,’ said the Bishop, visibly relaxing now the conversation had shifted to more abstract questions of morality. ‘Many people would say that a churchman has no right to make any comment on political issues and that he should remain above the hurly-burly in case he is seen to become the member of one particular political party or grouping. I am inclined to think that that is a risk worth taking. I do think a churchman has a special duty to act up to his principles even if he should alienate some of his flock in so doing. Christ was not afraid of being controversial and giving offence when he wanted to make moral statements.’

  ‘So you think private morality is a contradiction in terms?’

  ‘Well, yes, I do. Morality only has substance in actions and it’s hard to keep most actions private – as a churchman one may actually have a duty to make them public.’

  ‘I see,’ said Verity. ‘That’s very interesting. It seems to me to be close to the Communist philosophy of collective responsibility for political action.’ She suddenly had a bright idea: ‘I say, if my paper, the Daily Worker, asked you to write an article on political morality would you consider it?’

  The Bishop looked dubious. ‘I would consider it but I would have to be certain that it did not appear as if I were supporting the Communist Party.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Verity excitedly. ‘I say, Bishop – Cecil – you’re a very good sport; not the stuffy clergyman we expect a C of E bishop to be.’

  ‘And you, Verity Browne, are, if I may say so, a clever, persuasive and attractive young woman. You should go right to the top of the tree in your profession. But take an old man’s advice: don’t be tempted to take one risk too many.’

  ‘You’re not an old man,’ said Verity, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which startled her almost as much as it startled Bishop Haycraft.