A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  ‘I have never heard that English scientists got involved in this madness,’ Edward said.

  ‘That’s why I am particularly interested in Leonard’s story,’ Churchill said, sounding very subdued. ‘I have a confession to make to you, my boy. I was, for a short time, one of the deluded and I still feel guilty. Eugenics became very fashionable in the twenties. We had read about Darwin’s theories of evolution and the survival of the fittest. Francis Galton had taught that you could measure character and produced graphs and charts to “prove” that most foreigners were inferior to us Anglo-Saxons and that women could never be scientists. Complete balderdash, of course.’

  ‘But you opposed giving women the vote,’ Edward could not resist pointing out.

  ‘But not because they are inferior. They are often very much our superiors but their strengths and talents are different from ours. They can wield much more influence holding themselves above the political fray . . . but I see you are laughing at me. I admit that I fought that battle and lost and it was probably a battle I ought not to have fought but it is easy to be wise after the event, young man, as you will discover.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir – please, do go on.’

  ‘Yes, well, where was I?’ Churchill was obviously put out. He did not like to be interrupted when he was in full flow. ‘In Galton, Darwin had a disciple who took his ideas much further than was justified by the science. He believed that mankind progressed through a constant struggle among nations with weaker races going to the wall, and his views were adopted by clever men like H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw.’

  ‘Shaw!’ Edward said contemptuously. ‘I hear he praises Hitler as the greatest man of his time.’

  Churchill went on with his apologia. ‘We had heard of Gregor Mendel and his peas. If we could improve our maize, our wheat, our peas through selective breeding, surely we could improve our human beings? It seemed obvious to us that we had to improve our stock in order to provide strong, healthy young men to rule the empire. So many of the best of us had been killed in the war – like your brother, Lord Edward, and several young men close to me. My interpretation of eugenics was that we had to feed the population better and house working people in light, airy homes, not fetid slums. It seemed a democratic theory. The upper classes would have to justify their position in society or be replaced by fitter men.’

  ‘But in fact it was a gift to the dictators,’ Blacker put in.

  ‘I still think it is right that we should improve the health of our people but, of course, we could not know how these common-sense ideas would be perverted.’ Churchill sighed and hunched his shoulders. ‘When I was Home Secretary, I was persuaded to put my trust in a man called Ernest Lidbetter who had worked in Bethnal Green with the Poor Law Authority but who, I later discovered, was neither a scientist nor a doctor. He was very convincing. He believed that pauperism was hereditary. I admit I fell into the trap and believed his claptrap, though I soon realized that this was a gross error. Poverty is only hereditary because society makes it so. It is almost impossible for people to hoist themselves out of it. Without education, with bad health and no money how can a man improve his lot? When he is young and fit he gets a manual job which, in time, takes its toll on his health. The moment a man’s health begins to suffer from the rigours of his work, he can quickly become unemployable and quite useless to himself and to society. It seems ingrained in our society that the man who sits behind a desk as a clerk or, for that matter, a government minister looks down on the manual worker whereas we should respect him and improve the conditions under which he works.’

  Edward wished Verity was here to listen to Churchill. She might not think he was the enemy of the people after all. ‘Lidbetter is still publishing what he would call scientific books on the subject of race and how poverty should not be alleviated by charity as it merely encourages pauperism,’ Blacker said indignantly. ‘We thought the man had been laughed out of court but it appears that here and in America he still has a following. In Britain, he has been repudiated by all respectable scientists and starved of funds – we have seen to that. In the United States, the Carnegies and the Rockefellers have no wish to be seen to be bankrolling the Nazis and are very slowly seeing the error of their ways. However, their money has allowed Lidbetter and his like to go much further than they ought.’

  ‘So if these people are being starved of money,’ Edward rejoined, ‘surely that means they won’t be able continue with their “research” or whatever they call it?’

  ‘That was what so alarmed me when I stumbled on this new “foundation”,’ Professor Blacker replied. ‘It has refinanced the eugenics movement in Britain and we suspect it has close links with Nazi scientists doing the same sort of experiments in Germany.’

  ‘So, just close it down,’ Edward said.

  ‘We can’t without some solid evidence,’ the Professor said in exasperation, ‘and that we have not been able to find. Money has gone to perfectly respectable scientists interested in eugenics but, as far as I can find out, the main laboratories are in Hamburg and beyond our reach. One thing though, Sir Simon Castlewood – you know who I mean, Lord Edward? The millionaire – appears to own what I understand is called a “beauty institute” in the South of France. It may all be above board. We don’t know for sure but it might be worth investigating.’

  ‘What do the French police say?’

  ‘The French police are not interested in stirring things up,’ Blacker said sourly.

  ‘So who runs it – this beauty institute?’

  ‘Its director is a plausible rogue called Dominic Montillo. He calls himself a cosmetic surgeon. To be fair, he has done some good work remodelling the faces of unfortunates with disfigurements. What else he does we do not know for sure but there is some suggestion that he carries out abortions, which are illegal in France as they are here, of course. Worse still, rumour has it that he has carried out castrations of the mentally retarded and even what the Nazis call “mercy killings”. Simple murder, in other words.’

  ‘He must be a monster! Montillo – is he English? He doesn’t sound English.’

  ‘He has a British passport, Lord Edward.’

  ‘Who else is involved?’

  ‘The Castlewood Foundation has the support of several MPs and at least one bishop but its driving force is Sir Simon. He makes all the important decisions himself. And why not? It’s his money.’

  ‘The authorities can do nothing?’

  ‘No,’ Churchill said decisively. ‘Castlewood is a well-respected philanthropist. He has sponsored several expeditions to the North and South Poles as you probably know from the newspapers. He’s popular with the public and there would be an outcry if he was accused of anything as disgusting as . . . well, you understand. We would have to have overwhelming evidence to take any action against him. He’s seen as a force for good – someone who does something while others merely talk.’

  ‘What else do we know about him?’ Edward asked.

  ‘He’s a leading light in the Anglo-German Fellowship – Colonel Meinertzhagen’s organization – which, encouraged by the German Embassy, leaps to the defence of Nazi Germany at every opportunity,’ Churchill said, ‘but there is no evidence that he has broken the law, at least here in England. In any case, the last thing the Government wants is a row about science. The PM has too much on his hands to open a new can of worms. We don’t want any publicity about secret government laboratories and scientific establishments such as Bawdsey Manor or Porton Down. One question in the House about the Castlewood Foundation’s financing scientific research and MPs would feel they could name any of our secret establishments.’

  ‘Sir Simon lives at Swifts Hill in Kent, doesn’t he?’ Edward said meditatively.

  ‘That’s right,’ Churchill said. ‘Why, do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t but, as it happens, my friend Verity Browne is staying with the Castlewoods at this very moment.’

  ‘The journalist, Verity Browne?’ Churc
hill asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I would very much like to meet her. I have admired her reporting from Spain though I don’t always agree with her conclusions.’

  ‘I fear she does not wholly approve of you, sir. She is a member of the Communist Party and is inclined to see you – if you will forgive me saying so – as the enemy.’

  Churchill’s brow furrowed and then his face cleared and he chuckled. ‘What you tell me makes me even more interested in meeting her. Tell her I look forward to a spirited exchange of views.’

  Blacker, impatient with this badinage, said roughly, ‘I shall leave you now, Mr Churchill . . . Lord Edward.’ He gave a stiff little bow. ‘I have done what I can. It is now up to you to find out if there is anything . . . which needs seeing to. I confess I am relieved to have done what I believe is my duty but, as you appreciate, I can go no further while I am attached to the War Office.’

  It was a pompous little speech and Edward expected Churchill to show irritation but in fact he could not have been more gracious and showed Blacker out to his car with many kind words. On his return to the study, Edward asked point blank what he thought of him.

  ‘I do not presume to judge a man’s character from a few minutes’ conversation. I think you cannot understand what it means to the civil servants, Foreign Office officials and soldiers, airmen and sailors who make their way to Chartwell to air their concerns. They know they are right to follow their conscience but it nevertheless goes against everything they have been brought up to believe. It is very hard to betray a trust even if you are convinced that a greater trust is betrayed by keeping silent. You, Lord Edward, are lucky enough always to have been independent. I don’t just mean financially, though of course that is a rare blessing, but also – if I may put it so – emotionally. You can say what you want and choose whom you wish to serve, though I don’t doubt that when you do pledge your loyalty to an organization or person you are faithful to the end. Men like Leonard Blacker have less room for manoeuvre. They have served their superiors and their country faithfully. For them it is a very big step to come to an outsider such as myself, with what your Miss Browne would no doubt call an unsavoury reputation, to “spill the beans”. Only the most overwhelming imperative makes it possible for them to do so.’

  Edward felt rebuked and wondered if Churchill was warning him that he had a choice which, once made, was irrevocable. If he accepted a permanent position with the Foreign Office he would be bound to do what was asked of him without questioning the rights and wrongs. If he chose to work for Churchill he would, Edward was sure, rightly demand his absolute commitment. And yet so far, puzzlingly, Mr Churchill had made him no offer and he was certainly not going to raise the subject. Perhaps this business with the Castlewood Foundation was some sort of test. As it happened, he was not unwilling to take on the job of investigating it if that was what Churchill wanted. It would give him more time to think about what he wanted to do in the long term. In any case, what Leonard Blacker had said was horrifying. He was sure that Britain had clean hands when it came to this perverted science. It could not be denied that there was anti-Semitism in Britain. It pervaded society from top to bottom. He found it obnoxious but it was a long way from the institutionalized policies of ‘racial hygiene’ pursued by the Nazis which were utterly unworthy of a civilized country. It was ironic, as Churchill had pointed out, that this new prison camp, Buchenwald, was situated so close to Weimar, the city of Goethe and everything that was to be admired in German culture.

  ‘Do I take it, sir, that you want me to do a bit of digging and find out what I can about this Foundation?’

  ‘I would be grateful. It’s not a police matter, at least not yet, but I don’t doubt our country’s enemies are behind it. If you can get me a few hard facts I can send a file to Special Branch and we can put a few spokes in some wheels.’

  ‘Do you suspect Simon Castlewood of being one of those enemies?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have met him and he seemed a pleasant enough man. His father was a rogue, fortunate to have died before he was bought to book, but the son seems to be a different type. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. He may be all right. I think he is probably an unwitting dupe of this man Montillo. These millionaires are surprisingly gullible, you know. He may not fully understand what he is financing.’

  At Churchill’s insistence, Edward stayed for lunch and they discussed his investigation of the two Foreign Office murders that he had brought to a successful conclusion.

  ‘I have seen Sir Robert Vansittart only once recently,’ Churchill said. ‘As you know, he does not approve of me but I get the feeling that he is becoming disenchanted with the Government’s conduct of foreign policy.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Neville Chamberlain, our new, energetic Prime Minister, and Lord Halifax have been circumventing the Foreign Office and making overtures to the Italians behind Anthony Eden’s back. They hope to make some sort of “deal”.’ Churchill spoke with studied scorn. ‘Lord Halifax sees Mussolini as an “honest broker” who will help bring about peace with Germany.’

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘It is a forlorn hope and probably a dangerous illusion which merely distracts us from facing reality. Mussolini is Herr Hitler’s jackal, as I have already said. He snaps at his stronger partner’s heels hoping to pick up scraps. I fear we are once again showing ourselves to be weak in the face of bullying.’

  ‘And Mr Eden . . . Does he approve?’

  ‘No, I was talking to him last evening and he was exasperated. Chamberlain and he will come to blows. You cannot have the Prime Minister pursuing his own foreign policy behind his Foreign Secretary’s back. I have a great respect for the Prime Minister and I was glad to second his nomination as leader of the Conservative Party but, whereas we drifted to disaster under Stanley Baldwin, I believe we are now setting course for it with a determination that chills my blood.’

  As he drove back through the peaceful countryside, Edward thought how difficult it was to believe that England might soon echo to the sound of falling bombs with the drone of enemy bombers drowning out the songs of the woodland birds. If Churchill was right, Britain would face a war with Germany for which it was ill prepared or, perhaps worse, a humiliating surrender without a fight. It did not bear thinking about. Instead he turned his thoughts to Verity. By a strange coincidence she was in a position to do some useful detective work, but how to get hold of her? She would be back in London on Tuesday so there was not much time if she was to find out anything at Swifts Hill. He was half-tempted simply to drive up there and ask to see her but that was too brazen. It would cause comment and he did not want to embarrass her. In any case, it might be better if, at this stage, he did not meet Castlewood and alert him to the interest he was taking in his affairs. He could write to her and she would receive his letter the next morning but, if for any reason it was delayed, it might fall into the wrong hands. A telegram would be too dramatic. Probably, after all, the best thing was to discuss it with her when she returned. If she suddenly started asking questions she might arouse Castlewood’s suspicions and put him on his guard.

  3

  ‘Do tell us about him.’ Virginia was being at her most annoying and Verity pretended not to know to whom she was referring.

  ‘Tell you about whom?’

  ‘Oh, Crumbles, don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Lord Edward, of course! Is he as good-looking as he appears in the picture papers? I would so love to meet him. Oh! I have just had the most wonderful idea. Next Saturday is the annual cricket match – Swifts Hill against the village. Simon was complaining only last night that he was having problems getting a side together. Simon! Come over here. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.’

  When the ‘brilliant idea’ had been explained to him, Sir Simon was suitably enthusiastic and Roddy Maitland added his encouragement.

  ‘Do you think you could ever persuade him to come?’ Virginia asked
Verity. ‘It would be such fun and satisfy all our curiosity. Do say you’ll ask him.’

  ‘Yes do, Miss Browne,’ Roddy chimed in and Isolde squeezed her arm and said it would be ‘smashing’.

  ‘I’ll certainly ask him. I remember him telling me how good he was at cricket when he was at school,’ she said, a touch sarcastically.

  They were gathered in the drawing-room before dinner, sipping White Ladies, and Verity was wondering how she could get Maud Pitt-Messanger on her own and ask about her father’s murder. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite her. She thought she looked all right and Simon Castlewood’s interest in her seemed to bear this out. She was wearing a new dress made for her by Schiaparelli. It was surprisingly restrained, the black crêpe cleverly designed to make her look taller than she was. The bodice was entwined with François Lesage’s delicate embroideries, silver leaves and pink flowers on sinuous, winding branches. Verity did not much care for jewellery but she wore a pendant – ivory, coral and gold on a gold chain – given her by Edward, as he put it, ‘to remember Guernica’. It was the first piece of jewellery he had ever given her and she was touched but hesitant about accepting it. When a man gave a girl something as precious and beautiful as this, he was making a claim whether he admitted it or not. Her father was the only man before Edward from whom she had ever accepted clothes or jewellery. In the end she had kissed him on the lips and said she would treasure it. The pleasure it gave him was reflected in his eyes and she was glad she had not rejected it. Neither of her two previous lovers, the American novelist Ben Belasco and her political mentor David Griffiths-Jones, had been the sort who would think of giving her presents.