Sweet Poison

by David Roberts

  Von Friedberg himself took her in to dinner in a small dining-room off the big room in which they had been drinking champagne. The table was set for twenty but there were only six ladies including the Ambassador’s wife, a big brassy woman who understandably seemed to see Verity as an interloper. Friedberg sat at the head of the table with the Ambassador at the other end. He sat Verity on his left and the Ambassador’s wife, Carlotta, on his right. For the most part the men spoke English in deference to their guest and it suddenly occurred to Verity that she was the only non-German present. In a way this was a relief as she had not relished the idea of having to explain her presence to another English person whom she might come across outside the embassy. On the other hand, she wondered if she should be there at all and she said as much to Friedberg, but he smiled and kissed her hand again and said her presence delighted him. On his own territory he was more relaxed than dining at Mersham, when he had been nervous and unhappy even before the General died. He had been pleased to be invited to the Duke’s table but, when there, he had felt himself to be an outsider and the other guests hostile to him and to the Fü hrer, with the exception of Larmore whom he despised.

  Before the first course was served there was a moment’s silence and the Führer’s health was drunk. For some reason it had never occurred to Verity that this might happen. Perhaps it was fortunate that it had not, as she found herself standing to drink the toast before she fully realized what was happening. Presumably, she comforted herself by thinking, David Griffiths-Jones would have expected her to go the full distance in her subterfuge, but she shuddered when she considered what some of her friends in the Party would make of it, friends who had friends in prison camps in Germany. Then she shuddered again as she considered what her host might do if and when he discovered he was entertaining a hated Communist. There was no reason why he should not find out since she had never made any secret of her Party membership. And all the time she shuddered, she talked and laughed as if this was just a normal dinner-party in a normal London house.

  Fortunately, Verity was not called upon to dissemble to any great extent. As far as Friedberg was aware, she was a journalist working for Country Life and she did not disillusion him. When asked, she divulged that her father was a barrister, that she had no mother and lived in Knightsbridge, all of which seemed to satisfy her interlocutor. In order to forestall more probing questions, she asked him what was happening in Germany and why so many people were declared enemies of the state. Von Friedberg told her that in any great social revolution there were victims and that Germany had risen like the phoenix to take her historic place in Europe. ‘We have to be ruthless, my child,’ he said, horribly playful, taking her hand. ‘Our enemies are not gentle people, not like the people you know, so when we find them we have to destroy them before they destroy us. It is as simple as that.’

  She asked him about the Duke’s dinner-party. ‘The old man’ – he meant the Duke – ‘is aware of what I have been telling you about our resurgence – that is the word, is it not? – but he and the people like him are too hesitant. They should welcome the new Germany. In Aryan partnership Germany and the British Empire will rule the world. The Latin nations are finished.’ He clicked his fingers dismissively.

  ‘What about Benito Mussolini’s Italy?’ asked Verity, interested as to how her host would introduce Fascist Italy into his pantheon. He did not even try. ‘Pouff!’ he expostulated, blowing between two fingers as if he was dispersing dandelion seeds. ‘So much for Italy.’ The contempt in his voice was palpable.

  ‘There were others at the Duke’s table. What did you think of General Craig, for instance?’

  ‘Germany’s inveterate enemy,’ he pronounced. ‘He died as he had lived – ugly.’

  Verity was impressed by Friedberg’s decisiveness, at least in his judgments. She continued: ‘Peter Larmore? The Bishop?’

  ‘Larmore has been useful to me but that is finished. He is finished.’ Von Friedberg seemed to think he had made a joke.

  ‘And the Bishop?’

  ‘The Church of England – it is weak but the Bishop, maybe he is not so weak. I saw him kill your General Craig. That was a good deed.’

  Verity gasped. Fortunately, she had a moment to collect herself as Friedberg’s attention was taken by Carlotta, who evidently resented Verity’s hold over her neighbour. Verity was addressed by a well-mannered young man, a Major Stille, whose acuity she feared. As she parried his innocent-sounding questions, her mind tried to deal with Friedberg’s accusation. Made with the German’s characteristic firmness, here for the first time was one of the Duke’s guests prepared to say categorically that he had seen the General murdered. She must ask him to elaborate. Did he mean that he had seen the Bishop put poison in the General’s glass? If he had, why had no one else seen it? And what possible motive could the Bishop of all people have for murdering the General? It was absurd. Ironically, she had her first witness and could only disbelieve him. Who then, she asked herself, would she have accepted as a murderer? If the German had said he had seen Lord Weaver or Peter Larmore doctor the General’s port, would she have found it easier to accept?

  She ate her dinner – caviar on blinis, turbot, roast pork, some sort of rum baba, hardly knowing what it was she consumed. It was only as she struggled with the rum baba that, seeing Carlotta engaged in conversation with the unpleasant-looking man on her right, she could edge the conversation back to the murder. ‘I am intrigued, Helmut,’ – he had earlier begged her to use his first name – ‘by what you said about the Bishop. Did you really see him put poison in the General’s port?’

  ‘No, my dear, not quite that but I saw him push the glass across the table when you and Lord Edward arrived and when we all settled down again at the table the General drank from the glass and died.’

  Von Friedberg seemed quite unmoved by what he had witnessed, even took pleasure in the memory. She remembered how quickly he had made his escape after the General’s death, before the police arrived, but presumably if he had panicked then, it was not because of the death but because he feared being caught up in a police investigation and the publicity which would inevitably ensue.

  When dinner was over she suddenly felt exhausted. She summoned up the energy to make her goodbyes and declined her host’s offer to send her home in an embassy car. Instead, a taxi was hailed and she sank back on the tarnished leather thankful to be out of a place so normal on the surface but so sinister in all that it denied and disguised. Von Friedberg had been courteous to the last and she had weakly agreed to meet him when he returned from Berlin but she knew she would never see him again. In twenty-four hours Friedberg would have found out all there was to know about her and no one, certainly not a Nazi diplomat, likes to find they have been bamboozled. She shivered even though the night was warm and clutched the fur cloak which Friedberg had himself placed over her shoulders.

  When she got home she rescued Max from the care of the elderly woman in the flat below hers. He gave little excited barks, licked her face and wagged his tail so energetically she found herself weeping with relief to have something honest and innocent to love and be loved by. She decided she would ring Edward in the morning. Whatever his failings he was a pillar of decency and normality in comparison with the man who had kissed her hand that evening and looked into her eyes like a wolf in white tie and tails.

  12

  Wednesday

  Edward was awakened at twenty-five past seven the following morning by Fenton bearing a cup of lapsang souchong.

  ‘What’s the matter, Fenton?’ he said sharply, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. He knew Fenton would never have woken him half an hour earlier than was customary without a very good reason.

  ‘Inspector Pride is on the telephone, my lord, asking to speak to you urgently.’

  Edward got out of bed, took the tea from Fenton and sipped it and then, pulling on his dressing-gown and slippers, went out into the hall. He picked up the receiver: ‘Pride, is that
you?’

  ‘Lord Edward? I apologize for telephoning so early but I wanted to reach you before you went out and before you read the morning papers.’

  ‘Why? Whatever has happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is Mr Larmore. I understand you played a game of squash with him yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, but how the devil did you . . . ?’

  ‘I am afraid you were one of the last people to see him alive. He shot himself in the head late last night. He was found by his man who was awakened by the shot.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Edward horrified. ‘Larmore has shot himself? I can hardly believe it. When I saw him yesterday morning he was depressed, but after we had talked and played a game of squash he seemed much more cheerful. This is dreadful news.’

  ‘Mr Larmore left three letters: one for the police, one for his wife and one for yourself.’

  ‘He left a letter for me?’ Edward was amazed. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It is addressed to you, Lord Edward, so of course we have not opened it,’ Inspector Pride rebuked him gently.

  ‘Right, of course. When may I have it?’

  ‘I wondered if you would mind coming down to the Yard, say at ten o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there, Inspector,’ Edward said and rang off.

  ‘Fenton,’ he called. ‘The Inspector says that Mr Larmore has shot himself.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ said Fenton, appearing from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, and what’s more he has apparently left me a letter along with one to his poor wife and one to the police. I played squash with him yesterday – I can hardly believe it.’ Edward rubbed his forehead as, without knowing it, he always did when he was taken by surprise. He was shocked that someone who had been so very much alive a few hours before was dead. It did not seem real somehow. He bathed, shaved and dressed more rapidly than usual and, refusing Fenton’s offer of eggs, distractedly chewed a piece of toast and drank his coffee. The papers arrived as he was eating and he glanced quickly at the New Gazette. There it was; just a brief announcement. ‘Well-known politician commits suicide’. Obviously the news had only reached the paper just as the presses were about to roll because there was little but the basic facts. Apparently, Larmore’s valet had heard the sound of a shot shortly after midnight. He had knocked at his master’s bedroom door and, getting no reply and concerned by what he thought he had heard, he had opened the door and found Larmore lying across his bed – a gun still in his hand – having put a bullet through his brain. None of the other papers had anything to add and indeed the news had come too late to be in either The Times or the Morning Post.

  Just as he was about to set out for the Yard, he decided he should ring Verity. In his shock he had forgotten that there existed a coolness between them and when she answered the telephone he launched into his story. Verity was only too glad that they were back again on usual terms and agreed to meet him at Scotland Yard. ‘I don’t expect Pride will keep me long and then we can talk it over and see if it affects our investigation at all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Verity, grateful that he was still assuming they were partners. ‘I am due to see Lord Weaver at midday and I would like to talk to you before I see him.’

  ‘Why are you going to see Weaver?’

  ‘He wants me to tell him if I will accept his offer to write for the New Gazette.’

  ‘And are you going to say yes?’

  ‘I’m still not sure. I would like your advice,’ she added, uncharacteristically uncertain of herself. ‘On the one hand it is flattering to be asked and would do my career no end of good but on the other hand it may be against my principles to work for an archetypal capitalist. I really can’t decide.’

  ‘It might not do you much good with the comrades,’ said Edward unkindly.

  ‘No, well anyway . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Edward, immediately contrite, ‘I didn’t mean to make a cheap jibe. Let’s talk it through when we meet. I might try and oil in to see Weaver with you, if you didn’t mind. There are a few things I would like to ask him and I had a message at the club that he had been trying to get hold of me.’

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ Verity suddenly burst out, ‘have you talked to your brother yet? He ought not to read about Larmore in the newspapers. And that poor woman – was she called Celia?’

  ‘Larmore’s wife, yes. I’m afraid he led her quite a dance but even so she will be devastated, but I don’t think there is anything we can do. After all, I hardly knew him and I never met her except that once at that fateful dinner at Mersham.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Verity soberly. ‘Fateful is the word.’

  When Edward arrived at Scotland Yard he was shown up to the Inspector’s office. ‘We seem to meet all too frequently,’ Pride said grimly, shaking Edward’s hand.

  As usual, Edward was irritated by the Inspector’s manner which seemed to carry a hint of threat or at least complaint, as though this new death was Edward’s fault.

  ‘Before I give you the letter to read, would you oblige me by telling me what you discussed when you saw Mr Larmore yesterday? Did you meet by appointment?’

  ‘No,’ said Edward. ‘We both use the club for squash and to swim. I have seen him there before and we always exchange a few words but this time he was looking so miserable I stopped to talk to him. In any case I was looking for someone to play a game of squash with.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said it was all up with him. He owed a good deal of money and . . . I assume this does not have to get back to his wife?’

  ‘It depends, but if it is about his women I shouldn’t think it need be mentioned at the inquest.’

  ‘Oh, you know about that?’

  ‘Yes, Lord Edward.’

  ‘So, well, he said his mistress – he did not mention her name – had left him because he could not afford to keep her as she demanded.’

  ‘That would be Mam’selle Carnot. We have already talked to that lady.’

  ‘I see,’ said Edward. ‘Well then, you know everything, Inspector.’

  ‘He said nothing else then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, although Mr Larmore had debts, a gentleman of his station in life and with his friends might have borrowed without too much difficulty, I would have imagined.’

  ‘I gathered he was deeply in debt, Inspector, and I got the impression that he was also concerned that his debts would preclude his being offered a position in the government. That coupled with his muddled love life must have tipped him over the edge.’

  For some reason, although Edward had not liked Larmore, he thought he owed it to him not to give the Inspector any hint of his relationship with Friedberg. If it got out that he had been contemplating selling secret information to the Germans his name would be excoriated and that would be an added burden for his widow and children to bear. If it did get out, it would not be through him, Edward decided.

  ‘So there was nothing else?’ the Inspector persisted.

  ‘No, that was enough I should think, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Would you say that the balance of the poor gentleman’s mind was disturbed then?’

  ‘He was certainly very depressed but I thought after our game of squash he was in better spirits. I suggested he and I might go and see Lord Weaver who, I thought, might possibly have helped him with a loan.’

  ‘I see, Lord Edward. Well, I think you did everything you could for Mr Larmore. We can only assume that later that night, brooding on his troubles, he decided it was not worth going on. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’

  Again there was the implication that he might have something to reproach himself with, but Edward checked himself from making some sharp response. He thought the Inspector might suspect he had not told him the whole truth and was needling him in the hope that he would blurt something out which he might later regret.

  ‘May I see the letter now, Inspector?’ he said coldly.

>   Inspector Pride took an envelope off his desk and handed it to him. Edward looked at it, turning it over in his hand. It was a perfectly ordinary white envelope with the words ‘Lord Edward Corinth’ scrawled in blue ink on the front and underlined rather heavily. The Inspector passed him a paper knife and he slit open the envelope. The single sheet of writing paper he drew out had Larmore’s address printed at the top. It was undated. It read: ‘My dear Lord Edward. You were very good to me when we met earlier today. I know you don’t much like me but you are a good fellow. I feel I owe you something for trying to help me. Your idea of going to see Weaver – thinking about it, I just can’t be bothered. As I said, it is all up with me and I don’t think I can struggle any more. The only thing I really wanted was to be in the cabinet and whatever happens’ – Larmore had underlined ‘whatever happens’ – I won’t get that now.

  ‘What I wanted to say was this: I know you think someone killed Craig at that awful dinner at Mersham. You might like to know that you were right. Someone did murder him – not me, but the Bishop, Cecil Haycraft. I don’t know why but I definitely saw him push the glass of wine – port I mean – across the table while we were all disturbed by your arrival on the scene with that girl. He must have put poison in it because when the General drank from the glass he went into convulsions as you saw.

  ‘I don’t know whether this helps at all. Bishop Haycraft is a ghastly man – a leftie and a pacifist. I really would not have thought he had it in him to kill someone but I saw what I saw.

  ‘Well, there we are then. Goodbye and thank you, Lord Edward.’

  Larmore had signed himself ‘Peter Larmore’. Edward, who was not normally susceptible, blinked back a tear. It was as though he had held out his hand to a drowning man but had not held on tight enough and he had slipped from his grasp into the sea.

  The Inspector was looking at him quizzically. ‘May I see the letter?’ he asked, holding out his hand, when he saw Edward begin to fold it back into the envelope. Edward hesitated. He would have liked to keep from the Inspector what Larmore said he had seen Bishop Haycraft do but he realized that would be impossible. He handed Pride the letter without comment and the Inspector read it through without saying anything. When he had finished he returned it to Edward. ‘I would be grateful, Lord Edward, if you would keep this letter carefully. It may need to be presented in evidence at the inquest.’