‘Like Robespierre.’
‘Yes, like Robespierre, Lenin sees the value of what he calls “mass terror” and he emphasises the need for konspirativnost – underground political activity. That’s what particularly appealed to us in the Gramophone Society. I have said this to Verity but I don’t think she understands what I mean – perhaps no woman can: Lenin says there can be “no freedom of criticism” in the Party and those who are unwilling to operate actively under the direction of one of its officials should have membership denied them. Lenin called for miracles, for dreams, but to make them come true one must first have discipline.’
Edward was fascinated by the passion with which Griffiths-Jones spoke. It was almost as though he had forgotten to whom he was talking and was rehearsing in his own mind the faith that sustained him. Certainly, no one listening to him could doubt his sincerity, and the idea that he might accept help from Basil Thoroughgood, in exchange for betrayal of his principles, was frankly ludicrous. Edward was glad that he had not even touched on the subject. Griffiths-Jones might not like him – he certainly saw him as a class enemy – but at least, he fancied, thought him honest.
‘And was that why Tilney had to die? Was he undisciplined?’
David ceased pacing and looked at Edward in surprise, as if a child had said something unexpectedly precocious.
‘I didn’t say that. I told you, I didn’t kill him.’
‘No, but you said you could have.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Are you able to tell me what you were doing with Godfrey Tilney on the day he was, or perhaps was not, killed? You said nothing at your trial, I understand.’
‘No, I had my reasons for that.’ He thought for a few moments, pacing about his cell like an animal in a zoo. Edward waited, curious to see if the man would confide in him. At last Griffiths-Jones sat on his bed and put his head in his hands. ‘Can I trust you, Corinth?’ he said simply.
‘Anything you tell me in confidence now, I will keep absolutely secret unless I think it might damage British interests and then I would tell you what I proposed to do before doing it.’
‘Fair enough,’ Griffiths-Jones replied. ‘I don’t believe even you will consider anything Tilney and I were doing to be treasonous.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Anyway, it looks as though I am going to die unless I get help from someone. I don’t want to die now because there is so much to do. Believe me, I have no fear of dying but it has to be at the right time. I’m too useful to the cause to be wasted.’
Edward was filled with revulsion. This man had horribly inflated ideas about himself and his importance. But, like all fanatics, he was in some sinister way impressive.
‘Couldn’t you have trusted Verity?’ Edward said.
‘I could but I was afraid she might get hurt. She’s a good girl but I don’t think she could have coped with . . . with what I was involved in.’
Verity would have been furious – or at least Edward knew she would have been furious with him if he had patronised her in this way – but maybe, he reflected, she wouldn’t have minded Griffiths-Jones saying she could not cope. She seemed to lose all her critical faculties as far as he was concerned. However, it was something that David did care about her. He was such a cold fish, he could use anyone if he felt it to be in his interests.
‘You don’t want her hurt because you love her?’ Edward blurted out. He didn’t know why he said it – why he had to say it.
Griffiths-Jones looked at him curiously, his troubles momentarily forgotten. ‘I do love her, yes, but I told her, when I brought her out to Spain, that there was no room for personal feelings and that we had a job to do which was too important to be put in jeopardy by bourgeois emotions like love.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘I don’t know. That was not important. She may have been . . . upset.’ He meditated for a minute. ‘Still, I wish she hadn’t fallen into the clutches of that man.’
‘Which man?’
‘Belasco, the novelist. I can’t bear him and when I see him putting his paws on her . . .’
Edward was dumbfounded. ‘You mean Verity’s . . . Belasco’s lover?’
‘Yes, didn’t she tell you? Naughty girl.’ He laughed grimly. ‘I suppose she didn’t dare. She wanted you to “save” me because that’s the sort of bloody fool you are – to save the lover of the girl you’re in love with. Lancelot – or was he the one who slept with his master’s wife?’
Edward wanted desperately to hit him but knew he couldn’t. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ he said, making a great effort to sound calm. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference anyhow. I said I thought you would not want me anywhere near you but that, if I could help and you were prepared to trust me, then I would. There was nothing said about my feeling for her or for you.’
‘Nothing said!’ Griffiths-Jones repeated bitterly. ‘Spare us the good manners!’
‘So are you going to tell me what happened to Tilney?’ Edward said, ignoring the jibe.
‘I suppose I might as well, but remember, what I have to say to you is in complete confidence.’
Edward thought this rather rich coming from someone whose whole life was predicated on the premise that the ends justified the means. If Griffiths-Jones were told something in confidence, he would keep that confidence as long as it suited him and not a second longer. Yet here he was appealing to Edward’s sense of honour – precisely what he had been sneering at a minute before.
‘You must know, Corinth, that the Republic is desperately short of arms and if, as seems likely, it has to face down the army it will have to do it with bare fists and pitchforks.’
‘But I thought you said General Franco and – what’s his name? – Mola have been exiled to the provinces.’
‘Yes, but that was not wise. They ought to have been shot. If you remember your medieval history, the French and English kings liked to keep their “over-mighty subjects” at court where they could keep an eye on them. Back on their own estates, they could more easily plot rebellion and rally their retainers to their flag.’
‘You mean you think Franco and his friends are gathering support from the regiments they command in North Africa?’
‘Of course! A child can see it, but our good people just want them out of sight so they can be out of mind.’
‘How does this relate to what you were doing with Tilney?’
‘I’m just coming to that. There are in fact people high up in government who do see the danger and they instructed us – Tilney and me – to buy arms – particularly aeroplanes – from whoever will sell them to us.’
‘Why use you – foreigners?’
‘Just because we are foreigners, of course. If things went wrong, the Republic could repudiate us. Also,’ he added with evident satisfaction, ‘as members of the Communist Party we are above suspicion. Spain is riddled with corruption but, if there is honesty to be found, it is from comrades in the Party.’
‘I see,’ said Edward. ‘You were authorised to buy arms using gold . . .’
‘. . . from the Bank of Spain. I promise you, Corinth, if any of this leaks out neither your life nor mine will be worth a peseta – another reason I have not involved Verity.’
‘But surely,’ said Edward, remembering what Hester had said, ‘these sort of deals are made in offices and hotel rooms – not on the side of mountains.’
‘True enough but delivery . . . that has to be done with the utmost secrecy as close to us here as possible.’
‘But how were these arms delivered? Not by train or motor vehicle – there are hardly any roads up in the mountains, are there?’
‘No, that’s why it was so safe. The arms came by air along with the aeroplanes. We have no aeroplanes, at least not until recently.’
‘The stuff comes by air?’
‘Yes, since I’m telling you all this I will have to trust you completely,’ he said with obvious reluctance. ‘My life may hang on you not revealing what I’m going to tell you –
not to anyone.’
‘I promise to be discreet. Didn’t Lenin have a phrase he used when someone asked how he knew something: “A swallow brought it to me on its tail”?’
‘Yes! Wherever did you read that? But I mean it: I must have your word as . . .’
‘As a gentleman?’ said Edward ironically. ‘Look, David, I will keep as silent as the grave.’
‘Silent as the grave?’ he mused. ‘Graves can shout loud enough sometimes. However, I must trust you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s an airfield right up in the mountains in a sort of basin – perhaps it was a volcano once. Anyway, an aeroplane looks as though it’s flying over and behind the hills when actually it drops down on to this landing field. The crates are unloaded and taken to a warehouse near Barajas – the airport – where they can be distributed as the government sees fit. The aeroplanes have their markings changed and are flown on to Barajas separately.’
‘And is this a regular thing?’
‘This was the third delivery.’
‘But something went wrong?’ Edward hazarded.
‘Yes, one of the team got nervy – didn’t like something about the job and refused to go on with it. There was the devil of a row and the man got killed.’
Edward guessed this was a partial version of what actually happened.
‘So you dressed him in Tilney’s clothes and left him to be found by . . .’
‘We tried to bury him but the ground is solid rock there so we tossed him down a cliff.’
‘So his body would be difficult to identify?’ Edward felt revulsion at the coolness with which Griffiths-Jones recounted what must have been murder.
‘Yes, and I had to be sure to be the one to identify the body.’
‘But why did you leave your knife there?’
‘That was just a bad mistake. It must have fallen out of my pocket when we tossed the body down the cliff and, as luck would have it, was found beside the body.’
‘And the bloody jersey?’
‘Believe it or not, that was nothing to do with it. I got blood on it when I had a fall in the mountains a few weeks back and never got round to washing it.’
‘And the ring?’
‘I didn’t notice it wasn’t on my finger until I was back in Madrid.’
‘But why did Tilney need to disappear?’
‘Well, someone has to organise delivery of the arms we receive and in any case, he believed his life was in danger in Madrid. He refused to give me the details but he had had death threats, so it seemed a good time for him to vanish.’
‘But he did not know you would be suspected of his murder?’
‘No, we thought it could be blamed on brigands or whatever but it turned out I was the obvious suspect.’ He grinned wryly.
‘But why didn’t he send word or give any sign to prove you were innocent when you were on trial?’
‘That’s what I don’t know,’ said Griffiths-Jones in obvious puzzlement. ‘Every day I have expected to be released. After all, Tilney must have heard what happened. Even cut off from newspapers, he would have met someone who would have told him. He had to know what was happening in the world.’
‘You hadn’t quarrelled? I mean, it occurs to me he might want you dead.’
‘No, we were both fighting on the same side. Personal feelings didn’t come into it.’
‘But you kept quiet about why you were on the mountain?’
‘Yes, it was my duty, and,’ he added grimly, ‘if I had started talking about what we were really doing, I would have been found knifed to death even here in prison.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Edward. ‘You are in a hole.’
‘Yes,’ Griffiths-Jones agreed, ‘a hole four foot wide and six foot long unless . . .’
‘Unless . . .?’
‘Unless you can find Tilney and get him to come forward or something . . . but it’s hopeless. I know that.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Edward had to agree. ‘Is there anyone who might know where he is?’
‘I’ve thought about that. There’s a girl he used to . . . he was close to . . . an actress of sorts . . . called Rosalía Salas. I only met her once. She didn’t mix with the foreigners much, though I remember she spoke good English. In fact, Tilney kept her away from everyone. I don’t even know where she lives. If you could find her she might know something.’
‘You didn’t see her at your trial, then?’
‘No, never, which I suppose was a bit odd.’
Edward sighed: ‘Well, thanks to Basil Thoroughgood we’ve got a bit more time. By the way, in exchange for the help he is giving, keeping you alive, he wants you to spy on your friends in the Party for him.’
Griffiths-Jones laughed for the first time since Edward had seen him, and at once he looked much younger. ‘I suppose you told him I would tell you to go and boil your head or you wouldn’t have . . .’
‘Yes,’ Edward said, smiling too. ‘As you pointed out, we don’t live by the same rules but I would never accuse you of betraying your principles, much as I detest them.’
Griffiths-Jones laughed again: ‘No, you’re right there, but I don’t want to die for them if I can possibly avoid it.’
‘Yes, well, I had better get going,’ Edward said, getting up from the chair. ‘Oh by the way, can you tell me what sort of arms you were collecting that day?’
‘Hand-grenades, rifles – mostly Vetterlis, Arisakas and Lebels – whatever we could lay our hands on – pistols, machine-guns – Maxim MG 08s and Hotchkiss M 09s – cartridges of course . . . That last time we took delivery of a Fokker trimotor and a small Nieuport fighter.’
‘Good heavens!’ Edward exclaimed.
‘But not nearly enough and mostly old stuff. You see, the Americans, the French and our own beloved government have refused to sell arms to Spain. They say they want to stay absolutely neutral but actually they want to see the Popular Front overthrown.’
‘So, who do you buy arms from?’
‘The Soviet Union of course . . . and . . .’
‘And . . .?’ Edward prompted.
‘Well, you’ll think it odd and it was this that the Spaniard who died objected to when he saw the markings on the crates. We also buy from Germany. I know what you are going to say but . . . ends justify means and bullets have no smell. If we have to buy bullets from Fascists in order to kill Fascists – then that’s what we have to do.’
6
She wasn’t sure how it had happened. She had been lonely, of course, and apprehensive, but still . . . The problem was she had no idea how to be a foreign correspondent. There were no instruction manuals, no university courses, and her Baedeker, purchased hurriedly at the W H Smith bookstall in Victoria Station just before she caught her train, restricted itself to describing buildings of historic interest although, to be fair, the author, Albert F. Calvert, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Order of Alfonso XII, had included some interesting statistics about the population of Madrid and its geography. It was natural, therefore, that she gratefully received the paternal support offered by Ben Belasco. She called him ‘papa’ which he seemed to like and, though she knew he had a wife back in America somewhere, she put up little resistance when he suggested they spend the long, Madrid siestas in bed together.
It was partly David’s fault, she told herself. It was on his orders – he said it was the Party’s but as far as she was concerned it was his orders – that she had come to Spain and then he had more or less abandoned her. He seemed to be so busy with Party matters, which he was unwilling to discuss with her, that he had no time left for her. He told her to learn Spanish and get to know the people and wait. It made her fretful and sapped her self-confidence. It had all been so urgent – the call to leave England for Spain – but, now she was here, there was nothing to do but wait. But wait for what? A change of government? Governments were changing all the time but it seemed not to make any difference. Wait for some conflagration, some civil conflict on which the Party would ride to power
? Possibly, but there was no real evidence that this would happen.
In the meantime, she travelled round the country, mostly with Hester driving the Hispano. She learnt Spanish at the British Council – and picked it up quite quickly – but it was another matter getting anyone to talk to her. She had somehow assumed that people would want to use her to put across their views on the current political situation and plans for the future. She had taken it for granted that there would be a Ministry of Information through which she could meet ministers and government officials but there was none. Whether it was because she was a woman or a foreigner or both, no one with any influence would let her interview them. Spanish politics was an all-male affair. Women, with a few notable exceptions such as the communist Dolores Ibarruri, were there to cook for their men and breed, not to interfere in matters of state.
Doggedly she set about analysing Spain’s political institutions but it was hideously confusing. Governments might change but the cast of characters remained the same and it was almost impossible for a foreigner to make sense of it all – who was who, who was in power this week, who had made deals with whom. She worked out that there were no fewer than twenty-six parties in the Cortes – Republicans, Radicals, Radical Socialists, moderate Socialists, Social Democrats, left-wing Socialists, Anarcho-Syndicalists and pure Anarchists. Most confusing of all, there were two communist groupings, Stalinist and anti-Stalinist, and they hated each other far worse than any of the right-wing parties.
David, as a prominent Stalinist and a foreigner, was always in danger of a stab in the back and Verity suspected that Marxist-Trotskyists were behind his being framed for the murder of Godfrey Tilney. With David ignoring her, bored and homesick for London, it was inevitable that she would drift into the orbit of the most charismatic male of her acquaintance who spoke her own language. She did not quite see it this way. She considered herself to be firmly independent and, if she embarked on an affair with ‘papa’, that was because she needed . . . not love exactly. Thinking about love made her think of Edward. She missed him badly. It surprised her how much. Sometimes she thought she loved him but she wasn’t ready to be in love. To be in lust, yes, but how could she love? She had a career to make. Her whole concentration was on making a success of her time in Spain as a foreign correspondent. Her feelings for Edward were so . . . so complicated. Days went by when she did not think of him, but never whole weeks. Without meaning to, she silently compared him with the little group of English-speaking foreigners who gathered each night at Chicote’s on the Gran Vía and found them lacking. She could hear him, in his clipped upper-class accent, dismiss them all as ‘second rate’. Even Belasco – for all his animal magnetism, his experience with women, his glamour and fame – lacked something of Edward’s gravitas.
Bones of the Buried Page 9
