Bones of the Buried

by David Roberts

  He scanned the New Gazette for articles by Verity but, whether because there was nothing sensational enough to interest New Gazette readers or the news from Spain was judged by the editor to be too depressing, there were only two reports carrying Verity’s by-line in the whole time he was at Mersham. Neither, if Edward was honest with himself, made riveting reading and he hoped Lord Weaver, the proprietor and Verity’s sponsor, would not tire of her. He knew she would not last long without his support; the editor certainly did not care for her.

  Then came a telephone call from Basil Thoroughgood which galvanised him. He was sitting at the breakfast table consuming, without much appetite, kippers and scrambled egg when Bates, the butler, came into the room.

  ‘Excuse me, my lord. There is a trunk call for you – a Mr Thoroughgood. I informed him you were at breakfast but he insisted it was urgent that he speak with you.’

  ‘Thank you Bates. That’s quite all right. I’ll take it in the hall.’

  The instrument in the hall was one of only two telephones in the whole castle – the other being in the Duke’s study. If any of the servants wished to use the telephone, they had either to ask permission from the Duchess, which she almost always granted, or walk to the village. The Duke was inclined to think that telephones were a necessary evil and the source of bad news. Edward had to admit that, at least in this instance, he was right.

  ‘Thoroughgood, that you?’ he shouted down the mouthpiece in his clipped, high-pitched, rather nasal drawl which Verity, in one of her moments of irritation with him, had described as ‘equine’.

  ‘Corinth? Yes, it’s me, Thoroughgood. I wondered if you had heard the news?’

  ‘What news? Has something happened to Ver . . .? What news?’

  ‘It’s Thayer . . . he’s been murdered.’

  ‘Stephen, murdered? I can’t believe it. Surely not! Murdered? There was nothing in the papers.’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t have been. His body was only discovered this morning when the maid went into the study. He had been bashed on the head.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The Commissioner’s a friend of mine and he knew I was a close friend.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say? This is a bad line.’

  ‘I said . . . oh, never mind. Look, Thoroughgood, can I come and see you? There are things we need to discuss.’

  ‘Of course, that was why I was ringing. What time can you be in London?’

  ‘I’ll come on the eleven-ten and be with you about one. Oh . . . and Thoroughgood, will you talk to the Commissioner again and find out all you can about the circumstances of poor Thayer’s death – who was in the house, that sort of thing? Do we know who’s going to be in charge of the case?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Pride. I believe he’s a good man.’

  ‘Pride?’ Edward groaned.

  ‘Of course, I had forgotten you know him. He handled the unfortunate business at Mersham well – kept the whole thing quiet, didn’t he?’

  ‘Never mind about that. I’ll see you later. Goodbye . . . and thank you for ringing.’

  Edward found Connie in the breakfast-room looking worried. She had overheard his side of the telephone conversation. ‘What is it, Ned? Did I hear you say Stephen Thayer is dead?’

  ‘Yes, murdered . . .’ He rang the bell for Bates.

  ‘That’s terrible and there’s that poor boy too, Frank’s friend. I must ring the school and see if there’s anything I can do. It’s too awful. It’s the Easter break next week. I wonder if Frank will want to bring Charles here to Mersham?’

  ‘Yes, do that, Connie: speak to Frank. I think this may upset him quite badly. Do you remember I said I had met Stephen for the first time in years when I went to see Frank at Eton? I am kicking myself for not having followed it up. I might have been able to help in some way. Thayer told me he had something he wanted to talk to me about but because of one thing and another – Gerald mostly – it went right out of my head. Now I’m wondering whether if I had talked to him, I might have been able to do something which would have prevented this.’

  ‘Please, Ned, don’t start torturing yourself. If Mr Thayer had wanted to see you, there was nothing to stop him telephoning you here.’

  ‘I know but . . . Ah, Bates, have the papers arrived?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I have them here.’

  Edward grabbed The Times and Connie took the New Gazette but, as Thoroughgood had said, there was nothing about Thayer’s death in either.

  ‘Connie, I’m going up to town on the eleven-ten. I feel in my bones there’s a connection between Godfrey Tilney’s death and Thayer’s – something Stephen said when I met him at Eton. And now I think about it, someone else who was at school with the two of us was killed – a chap called Makepeace Hoden. It’s all too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘This man Hoden – you mean he may have been murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edward said grimly, ‘but I’m beginning to wonder. His death was reported as a shooting accident. He was on safari in Kenya, but now I am beginning to think his death may be part of a pattern. Makepeace Hoden,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a singularly inappropriate name.’

  12

  It’s damned odd, Corinth. There’s got to be something going on.’

  Edward was seated on an upright chair like a naughty schoolboy, while Thoroughgood lounged back in his armchair behind a desk empty of anything except a telephone and a blotting pad.

  ‘You’ve talked to Pride? How did you get him to confide in you?’

  ‘I know the Commissioner. I told him I was a close friend of Thayer’s and he instructed Pride to keep me informed of progress. I went to see him at the Yard on my way here. He was quite helpful though he says he doesn’t have much to go on.’

  ‘What does he think happened?’

  ‘The murder must have occurred after the servants went to bed – I understand that was about eleven. There’s no evidence that anyone broke into the house so whoever killed Thayer must have been let in by him.’

  ‘And you don’t turn your back on someone you think may have a reason to kill you.’

  ‘Not unless you are very arrogant.’

  ‘Hang on, though, what about the servants?’

  ‘There are only three who live in, according to Pride, the butler – a man called Barrington – a cook and a parlourmaid. They would appear to be beyond suspicion.’

  ‘What time was the body discovered?’

  ‘Seven this morning, when the maid went in to tidy up.’

  ‘You say he was killed by one of his own ornaments?’

  ‘Yes – or rather not an ornament but a work of art. Thayer had a valuable collection of oriental figurines – jade mostly. The killer brained him with a Buddha – late seventeenth-century Japanese, I believe.’

  ‘Hmm. That suggests the killer acted on impulse.’

  ‘You mean, he used whatever was at hand?’

  ‘He – or she. Could a woman have done it? I’d like to see the figurine.’

  ‘Women don’t go bashing people over the head. Anyway, they’re not strong enough. Thayer was tall and . . .’

  ‘Maybe – yes, you’re probably right,’ Edward admitted. ‘Did he have any obvious enemies?’

  ‘I don’t think so but Pride may turn up some skeletons. You don’t found and run a successful merchant bank without breaking a few bones.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Edward paused. ‘It was successful – the bank?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘You must forgive me, Thoroughgood, but I don’t quite understand why you’re so worked up by all this. It’s terrible, of course, but, as I remember it, you were never a great friend of Thayer’s.’

  ‘No, not at school but afterwards our paths crossed quite a lot, you know,’ he said airily. ‘I was able to do him a few favours, gave him a tip now and again – early warning of what was happening abroad, that sort of thi
ng . . .’

  ‘And in return he made you money?’

  ‘Yes, he cut me in on a few deals. You know how it is – old school tie . . .’

  ‘So, you’ve got money in the firm?’

  ‘Between ourselves, Corinth,’ said Thoroughgood, leaning forward confidentially, ‘I’ve got a lot at stake if the bank goes down.’

  ‘But why should it go down? You said it was successful.’

  ‘Merchant banks are all a matter of trust, Corinth, you must see that. Thayer was the bank. With him dead . . . murdered . . .’

  ‘There must be other partners.’

  ‘Just the one – a chap called Hoffmann.’

  ‘German?’

  ‘Yes, Heinrich Hoffmann. You haven’t heard of him?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘I just thought you might. He’s based in Frankfurt. Thayer was well in with the Fatherland.’

  ‘Hoffmann’s a Nazi?’

  ‘No, he’s not actually a Party member, not yet anyway.’

  ‘I see, so you’re afraid this business will uncover some deals with the Nazis which you wouldn’t want your name connected with?’

  ‘I’m being quite honest with you, Corinth. After all I can trust you; we were at school together.’

  ‘And if we went to war with Germany . . .?’

  ‘God forbid . . .’ said Thoroughgood, passing a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I’m trying to get my money out of the bank but it’s not easy, and now . . .’ he shrugged, ‘as I say, I’ve got a lot at stake: money, reputation – everything to lose.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Edward said easily, taking some pleasure in seeing the man squirm.

  ‘Well, you know, I can’t really be seen to be asking too many questions. I thought, as a friend of the dead man, you could keep an eye on the investigation. Maybe even drop Pride a hint or two. Anyway, keep the whole thing quiet. It’s for the good of the country.’

  Edward was beginning to feel his stomach churn. ‘I thought you were worried you might be next on the list?’

  ‘To be murdered? Well, there’s that too. That’s why we need to find out who killed Thayer . . .’

  ‘And Tilney and Hoden.’

  ‘You think the deaths are all connected?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe . . . I have thought so but I have no idea why or how.’

  ‘Thayer hinted to me, the last time I saw him, that something was . . . I don’t know . . . worrying him.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was going to tell me about it but he never did.’

  ‘You’ve got to find out why Thayer was killed. You can ask people – people at the top – questions the police can’t ask or, if they do, they won’t get answered. It will be good for you, too.’

  ‘What do you mean: “good” for me?’

  ‘Well, if you do your country a service . . .’

  ‘My country!’ Edward exploded.

  ‘The FO, then. If you deserve well of us, we can help you. You want a job, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been saying. And then your girlfriend: Verity Browne. She’s got some undesirable friends. She may need protecting. Another thing, for all we know this madman may have you next on his list, not me.’

  No one had ever attempted to bribe him before and it took his breath away. He wanted to stretch across the desk, take the fellow by the throat and throttle him. This man, with a job of trust and responsibility in one of the great departments of state at a critical time in British history, was prepared to lie, bribe and blackmail to preserve his worthless hide. His influence in the Foreign Office would be directed at keeping his financial dealings with a potential enemy secret and safe. Regardless of the national interest, Thoroughgood had only one aim: to keep Britain on good terms with Germany.

  Edward got up carefully, holding back the anger which threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Thoroughgood. I didn’t like you at school and I don’t like you now. There is nothing you can offer me which I would take with a pair of fire tongs. As it happens, I have my reasons for wanting to get to the bottom of this killing, otherwise I would tell you to go to hell.’

  ‘Steady on, old chap. Don’t take that tone with me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a rich man, you understand, and this was a way of putting aside something for my retirement. I’ve done nothing illegal.’

  ‘Listen carefully, Basil my boy,’ Edward said with studied contempt. ‘You will send me, to Albany, a letter of introduction to Mr Heinrich Hoffmann requesting him to answer any question I might put to him. As soon as I have left this office, you will telephone Chief Inspector Pride and ask him to give me any information I may require and, if he makes a fuss, get on to your pal, the Commissioner. Savvy?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Corinth, just as you say.’

  ‘But I warn you that if, in the course of my investigations, I uncover any dealings between the bank and your Nazi friends which affect the case, I will not hesitate to inform the police. I shall try and forget what you have said to me today but, if at any time I have reason to believe that you are annoying any of my friends or putting obstacles in my way, I will not hesitate to speak to Sir Robert about you. Vansittart ought to know the value of the advice given him by his officials.’

  ‘But, Corinth, we were at school together,’ bleated Thoroughgood.

  ‘And I am ashamed of it,’ said Edward rising.

  Without another word, he left, closing the door behind him as quietly as if he were leaving a sick room. As he passed Thoroughgood’s secretary, she looked up with a startled smile which faded as she saw his face. When he reached the street, he gulped down mouthfuls of the smog which had settled on London like a dirty blanket, despite a persistent drizzling rain. At that moment, after what he had had to listen to inside, it tasted sweeter than the air on his beloved hills above Mersham.

  Edward found Pride at the Yard but, as he had feared, the Chief Inspector was not willing to co-operate. His mention of Thoroughgood’s name merely made the policeman curl his lip and raise an eyebrow, and he saw he had made a tactical error. Pride made it quite clear – with icy politeness – that the last thing he needed on the investigation was some meddling aristocrat asking questions of him or his officers.

  ‘I was a friend of the dead man, Chief Inspector. We were at school together and his son is a close friend of my nephew’s. I’m naturally keen to do anything I can to help you find his killer.’

  ‘Very good of you to have come forward,’ said Pride, with a smile of wolfish insincerity, ‘but it’s best to leave these things to the experts, no offence mind. If we need to ask you any questions you can be certain we will be in touch with you . . . my lord.’ He added ‘my lord’ with studied irony.

  Edward knew it was hopeless but he tried one more time. ‘I am aware that you don’t like me, Chief Inspector, but I hope you won’t let that prejudice you. There may be something . . . some enemy in his past . . .’

  ‘I don’t know where you got the impression I don’t like you,’ said the policeman, grinning, ‘but I assure you that is not the case. However, I am confident we shall quickly find Mr Thayer’s murderer. He had enemies in the world of banking but I don’t think you are able to help us with that side of things.’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Please, Lord Edward, as you can appreciate I am very busy right now. Don’t hesitate to ring my sergeant if there is any information you wish to pass on.’ A thickset, amiable-looking man, with a face badly scarred by acne, came into the room. ‘Sergeant Willis, this is Lord Edward Corinth . . . a friend of the late Mr Thayer’s. I have asked him to tell you if he picks up any interesting titbits. Perhaps you would be kind enough to see Lord Edward out. Goodbye, sir. I am sorry we seem always to meet in circumstances like these.’

  As Sergeant Willis led Edward through to his office, which adjoined Pride’s, he said, ‘I was explaining to the Chief Inspector that the murdered man was a fri
end of mine – an old school friend, in fact. If there’s anything you need to know about his background, please feel free to ask me. Here’s my card.’

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m sure we’re very grateful.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Edward said casually, ‘might I see the Buddha – the murder weapon?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my lord. It’s still in the lab. They’re running all sorts of clever scientific tests,’ he added patronisingly.

  ‘Of course. Have you a photograph?’ The sergeant hesitated and glanced towards Pride’s office. ‘Please, Sergeant. I can’t see what objection there could be to me looking at a few photographs.’

  The sergeant glanced once more at the door behind which his superior laboured and then took a decision. ‘These only arrived an hour ago.’ He passed Edward a brown file tied up with ribbon. Edward fumbled with the tie, almost tipping the sheaf of glossy photographs on to the floor. When he had them in his hand, the first image was so horrific he had to check the exclamation that came to his lips. Even in a black-and-white photograph, the brutality of the scene shocked him. His friend was lying on his face, his head a pulp of blood and brain. The frenzy of the attack was unmistakable. This was not a cold, planned killing but someone giving way to ungovernable rage.

  ‘Not a pretty sight,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘No indeed, Sergeant. This was a savage attack.’ He put the photograph on the bottom of the pile and looked at the second. This showed the Buddha clearly. It had rolled a few feet from the body and lay against the fireguard. He judged it must be about eight or nine inches high and five wide – it would easily have fitted in the murderer’s hand and the heavy jade had smashed Thayer’s skull as if it were eggshell.

  ‘It must have been a man,’ he said, thinking aloud.

  ‘Or a strong, tall woman. If you get a good swing with a heavy object, it will act like a hammer head. The force of the blow is concentrated. It looks as if the killer hit much harder than he – or she – needed to.’