Bones of the Buried

by David Roberts

  ‘Oh, no thank you. A cup of tea – if that’s possible . . .?’

  ‘Of course, of course. And you, dear lady?’

  ‘Tea please, Mr Nadall. Driving in an open car dries out the vocal cords.’

  Verity wasn’t quite sure why she had said this except that there was something so arch about his way of speaking that it invited imitation.

  ‘What a beautiful motor car, Lord Edward . . .’ Nadall began, and Verity blushed as she saw that she might legitimately be accused of having drawn attention to the Lagonda in order to ‘show off’.

  ‘It is splendid, isn’t it, Mr Nadall,’ Edward said.

  ‘Mike, please; everyone calls me Mike.’

  ‘Mike, then, but your Ford – it is yours?’

  ‘Oh yes. I wouldn’t be without it for the world. The wife and I take a spin in it most Sundays – she has a sister in Clapham – or else we go out to Hampton Court . . .’

  Edward called the meeting to order. They were standing in the tiny front room, as clean as if it had never been used, which he thought was probably the case. ‘It is so kind of you to be so helpful about Mr Thayer. May we ask you a few questions about that business at Eton?’

  ‘Oh, but I’m delighted to help, my lord. The fact of the matter is that now I’m retired I get a little bored and I welcome the chance of reliving old days. I’ve kept all my notebooks, you know.’

  ‘Very wise. May we sit down?’

  ‘Of course! I don’t know what I’m thinking of. Make yourself comfortable. Ethel,’ he shouted, ‘tea for our guests.’

  A large woman, as red in the face as her husband, put her head round the door. ‘The wife,’ Nadall said apologetically.

  Edward rose politely but Ethel was too shy to acknowledge his presence and Nadall seemed unwilling to introduce her into the conversation. ‘It’s the maid’s afternoon off,’ he said as he packed her off to the kitchen to make the tea.

  Edward rather doubted that there ever was a maid.

  ‘You see, the thing is, Mr Nadall – Mike – we have a hunch there might be a connection between Mr Thayer’s murder and that affair at Eton. I know it must seem unlikely but . . .’

  ‘Not at all. It crossed my mind it might have something to do with the boy.’

  ‘You mean Stephen Thayer?’

  ‘No, the boy who was killed.’

  ‘The boy who was killed? I’m sorry, Mike, but I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ Nadall said, and a sly look came into his eyes. ‘May I ask, my lord, why you want to know about all this? The police . . .’

  ‘Yes, it must seem a bit odd,’ Verity said. ‘The fact is, we don’t think the police quite know where to look and so we thought we’d give them a bit of help,’ she ended lamely.

  Edward decided he had better tell the truth. ‘Stephen Thayer was a friend of mine at Eton; older than me by about three years so I was never told the reasons behind his being expelled.’

  ‘Sacked,’ Nadall corrected him officiously. ‘That’s what they call it there, but then you would know that, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, sacked. You’re quite right, Mike.’ Nadall looked pleased. ‘And we discovered – Miss Browne and myself – that the two other boys sacked at the same time as Thayer – Makepeace Hoden and Godfrey Tilney – were also killed recently in suspicious circumstances.’

  Nadall whistled. ‘Fancy that. That is a rummy thing, eh, my lord? Three murders!’

  ‘We’re not sure Mr Hoden was murdered,’ Edward explained. ‘I don’t want to leap to conclusions. He died on safari in Kenya. Mr Tilney was killed in Spain. Perhaps there’s no connection, but that’s why I am so interested in what you can tell us about this other boy.’

  At that moment, Ethel came in with a fine porcelain teapot on a tin tray emblazoned with a picture of Hampton Court. They were clearly being honoured with the best tea set. She began to pour the tea, managing to slop a little on to the tray. ‘I’ll do it, woman,’ Nadall said brusquely, and for a moment his geniality was replaced by something close to anger. Edward wondered just what Mrs Nadall had to put up with.

  When she had left the room, Nadall silently poured very black tea into three small cups, passed one to Edward and a second to Verity, and sat back sipping at his own, looking shrewdly at his guests. It occurred to Edward that the man was computing the value of the information he had to give but, in the end, he said, ‘Maybe the best thing is if I tell you the whole story as I learnt it.’

  ‘That would be best probably,’ Edward said encouragingly.

  ‘Well, see, it was like this. We got a tip-off that Dora Pale, the film actress . . . you remember her, my lord?’

  ‘Yes of course, though I don’t believe I have ever seen any of her films.’

  ‘Ah, there you’ve missed something, if I may say so, my lord. Silent films, of course, but what a looker she was. Sultry they called her and that about sums it up. When I was starting out in Fleet Street, she was the cat’s whiskers. Whenever there was nothing much doing, the editor would say, “What’s Dora Pale up to?” and we would scuttle off to find out. It became quite a joke in the newsroom. We would always refer to a quiet day as a Pale day. Ha! But her films! Faithless, that was one of hers, Tarnished Woman, and The Sin. For my money, she was better than Tallulah Bankhead or even Jean Harlow. She was a stunner but that wasn’t the half of it. She smouldered. She had a drugged look and that was no coincidence. She was a dope fiend – no doubt about it. She never tried to hide it and, for the most part, the authorities turned a blind eye.’

  ‘She was American?’

  ‘No, my lord. She lived mostly in America, naturally, but I do believe she was born in Tunbridge Wells – the daughter of a Colonel of the Guards, I heard tell. Tunbridge Wells, I ask you!’

  ‘Was she married?’

  ‘You’ve put your finger on it there, my lord,’ Nadall said admiringly. ‘She was married to a rich Jew. His name was Federstein – Max Federstein. Ever heard of him?’

  Edward shook his head.

  ‘He owned one of the big department stores in Oxford Street, but I believe his millions – he was a millionaire and needed to be, mind you, married to Dora Pale – came from oil. Persia – that was where he lived most of the time.’

  ‘And while he was away . . .?’ chipped in Verity.

  ‘Exactly, miss, the mouse played – and played hard.’

  ‘But why was she at Eton so often? In one of the cuttings it said she was “a habitual visitor” at the hotel in Bray.’

  ‘That was because she had her boy at the school.’

  ‘Ah ha!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘She had a son, did she? Would that be the boy who was killed?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It was her little lad who died.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly her fault, my lord.’

  ‘She was a good mother?’ Verity inquired.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. The thing was – and you must excuse me being coarse, miss – she had a thing for boys. A penchant for young flesh. That was why she liked visiting the school. I don’t know that she was much interested in her son, but that’s just a guess.’

  Nadall rolled the words about in his mouth like a fine wine. Edward was revolted but dared not show it.

  ‘Drugs, sex. . . It was frustrating. The New Gazette couldn’t report the smallest part of it. In fact the Old Etonian brotherhood, if you will allow me to so describe it, my lord, came down on us like a ton of bricks. Lawyers, politicians . . . after that first couple of days we had to put a sock in it; the editor’s orders. They didn’t care what we said about Dora Pale but there must be no scandal touching boys at the college. They talk about the Freemasons but Old Etonians are much worse when they want to hush something up – begging your pardon, my lord.’

  ‘But the three boys were sacked,’ Edward said.

  ‘The boys’ parents took them out of the school – which is different, I understand.’

  ‘But
you say Dora Pale’s son was killed. How did that happen and when?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nadall reluctantly. ‘I was off the story by then but I heard he had committed suicide or maybe was even murdered . . . It must have been soon after the events we were talking about.’

  ‘But if it had been either murder or suicide, surely it would have been reported?’

  ‘Yes, miss, but I don’t think there was ever such a verdict in any coroner’s court. As I say, it was all kept very quiet. It was never reported that Dora Pale even had a son, let alone that he was at Eton. You see, his name wasn’t Pale. There was a biography of her a year or two ago and I got it out of the library. There was nothing in it about her family – just the very briefest mention of her being married to Federstein.’

  ‘So the boy’s name was Federstein?’ Edward persisted.

  ‘Yes, Oliver Federstein.’

  ‘Dora Pale’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. She died shortly after her son, I believe.’

  ‘In 1918?’

  ‘Yes, in the flu epidemic, according to the book about her, but I expect it was more likely to have been the booze and dope.’

  Edward rubbed his forehead. ‘I must say I can’t believe I never heard anything about this.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Nadall comfortably. ‘There’s nothing like the upper classes for keeping a secret and suppressing information when it’s in their interests.’

  Edward was beginning to get annoyed at being patronised by this unpleasant fellow. ‘Well, Mike,’ he managed, ‘that was most interesting. We’re most grateful to you. There may be a connection between this boy’s death and Stephen Thayer’s murder but I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.’

  ‘Will you tell the police what I have told you, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, we must. You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ said Nadall, as though he had been accused of something.

  ‘Thank you again, Mike,’ said Edward, rising with relief from the sofa which had been specially designed, he thought, to torture anyone foolish enough to sit on it. ‘We’ll let you know what happens and, please, get in touch with me if you think of anything else which might be of interest. Here’s my card.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And you will keep all this confidential?’ Verity added, rising with difficulty from her uncomfortable armchair.

  ‘You’re afraid I might “scoop” you, miss?’ Nadall said mischievously.

  Verity gave him one of her sweetest smiles. ‘Oh no, Mike, that hadn’t occurred to me. I merely thought if Stephen Thayer’s murderer knew you had information which might lead to his being found out, well . . . you might be in danger.’

  The smile left Nadall’s lips to be replaced by naked fear. ‘You don’t really think, do you, my lord, that I might be in danger?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Edward, ‘but Miss Browne is right. Best keep mum, don’t y’know.’ He put on one of his silly-ass expressions but, when they were safely in the Lagonda speeding away from the prim little house behind whose net curtains so many secrets were hidden, Verity said, ‘Cripes! Didn’t he remind you of . . . of one of those little men who murder their wives in the bath or something?’ She shuddered. ‘My flesh is still creeping. Perhaps he’s our murderer?’

  ‘I don’t think so, much as I would like it to be him. It sounds far-fetched but . . .’

  ‘. . . someone was taking revenge for the boy’s death?’

  ‘It has to be that!’ Edward hit the steering wheel, sounding the horn and scaring a bicyclist.

  ‘But who . . . who? Dora Pale is dead. Her husband is either dead or very old.’

  ‘Yes, we must see if Federstein senior is still alive and find out whether Dora Pale had any other children or close relatives.’

  ‘I’ll get down to that in the archives.’

  ‘Yes, and talk to Lord Weaver. He may well have come across Federstein if he was a millionaire businessman. It’s a small club, that one.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Thoroughgood – see if he can add anything. After all, he was at Eton when it all happened. And I must tell Chief Inspector Pride what we have discovered.’

  ‘You have to?’

  ‘It’s our public duty,’ said Edward pompously. ‘But never mind, Verity, he’ll take absolutely no notice! After the funeral, I’m going to Frankfurt. I must talk to Hoffmann even if he’s got nothing to tell us. I wonder if Pride has been over to Germany? I somehow doubt Scotland Yard finances run to foreign travel.’

  ‘And I have to get back to Madrid. Hester wired me. Things are hotting up. I don’t want to miss an important story when I’ve done all the work.’

  ‘My little bloodhound,’ said Edward, risking a tease.

  Verity ignored the remark. ‘Apart from the politics, I want to find out if any of our friends in Madrid are suspects. Don’t forget we may have a motive but we also need an opportunity. Someone has to have been present at all three deaths. It might be someone we don’t know – a complete stranger – but it might be . . .’

  ‘. . . someone we do know,’ said Edward grimly.

  17

  Chief Inspector Pride stared at him and Edward stared back. Across Sergeant Willis’s pockmarked face passed the ghost of a smile.

  ‘Now, let me get this straight,’ said the Chief Inspector at last. ‘You have taken it upon yourself, for reasons I have yet to fathom, to interview a number of people who knew Stephen Thayer when he was a schoolboy.’

  ‘Well, it’s natural that I should want to know who killed my friend.’

  ‘And you have come up with some story . . .’ Pride persevered, as if Edward had not spoken, ‘some theory that he was killed in revenge for the death of a film star’s son.’

  ‘Come on, Chief Inspector, be fair. I have given you good reasons why there may well be a connection.’

  ‘Good reasons? I’m sorry, Lord Edward, but I must reiterate what I said earlier. It can only confuse things if you and your girlfriend . . .’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘If you and Miss Browne go around asking people questions, causing alarm and upsetting old ladies. Leave it to us. We have a number of leads and we expect to make an arrest before very long. I will go as far as to tell you this, Lord Edward. Your friend Stephen Thayer had enemies about whom you know nothing and whose motives for wanting him dead are much stronger and more recent than some schoolboy enemy. You think you are investigating this murder but really you’re just dabbling in things you don’t understand. At best, you may muddy the pond and, at worst, you may cause us to miss vital evidence. As for your plan to go over to Frankfurt to see this Mr Hoffmann, I absolutely forbid it. Our friends in the police over there are investigating on our behalf and I believe them to be most efficient.’

  There was something about Lord Edward Corinth which made him sick with anger. How dare this rich, idle aristocrat interfere with his investigation? How dare this supercilious nincompoop imply that he – Chief Inspector Pride, with more than a decade of experience investigating crime – might not be up to catching this murderer? All this stuff about Eton – it made him want to spew.

  Edward sighed: ‘You know best, Chief Inspector. I merely thought it my duty to tell you what I had discovered but, as you say, it may well be irrelevant if you are just about to arrest the murderer. I’m afraid, though, I cannot promise not to travel to Frankfurt. There is no law – at least not yet – against taking a train across Europe, is there?’

  ‘I must warn you for the last time that if you are detained in Germany for making . . . a nuisance of yourself, there will be nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Very good, Chief Inspector. I quite understand. Thank you for giving me so much of your time.’

  ‘Not at all, Lord Edward,’ said Pride, positively genial in victory. ‘Sergeant Willis will show you out.’

  As Edward left Pride’s of
fice, he caught sight of the policeman’s face reflected in the glass door. There was almost elation there and he thought, rather uncomfortably, that along with Verity and his nephew Frank, Chief Inspector Pride saw him as a class enemy – a silly ass with too much time on his hands and too little responsibility. It was hard, he thought, that a man in his position could be so despised for the silver spoon which had been thrust into his mouth at birth, before he was in any position to object.

  Sergeant Willis, showing him out of the office, said, a little conspiratorially, ‘My lord, don’t think we won’t take what you say seriously. You will understand, I am sure, that the Chief Inspector is under great pressure. There are several influential figures watching this case closely and . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Edward said with a smile. ‘I do understand. Do you think the Federstein connection is just my overexcited imagination?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord. I truly don’t know. But we will be talking to this Mike Nadall and I will keep you informed of any developments.’

  ‘I most grateful, Sergeant,’ said Edward and he walked out into Whitehall with a lighter step.

  Breathlessly, that evening over the telephone, Verity reported on a conversation she had had with Lord Weaver. She considered what he had told her to be highly significant but Edward, though not wishing to be a wet blanket, could not see that it left them very much further forward.

  ‘Joe said he had never met Federstein but that stories about him were legion. By the time he arrived in London towards the end of the war, he was already known as an eccentric but he kept very much to himself. In any case, he spent most of his time in Persia looking after his oil interests.’

  ‘What about Dora Pale?’

  ‘Joe couldn’t tell me much. It was said she was the great love of his life but that, after she had borne him a son, they had agreed to live more or less separate lives. Joe doesn’t know the reason but her lifestyle was already becoming notorious. She collected around her a group of “theatrical” friends whom she entertained with a succession of parties which the press liked to describe – how accurately one does not know – as orgies.’