Edward had lost the argument and now, as he looked at the machine, he was glad he had.
‘I can’t wait to see how fast this bird’ll go,’ Bragg said. ‘The guv’nor won’t let me stretch her but you won’t mind taking a risk or two. I wanted him to buy a Focke but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Because it’s German?’ Verity inquired.
‘They make the best,’ he said simply. ‘I wish it weren’t so, but it is. When the war comes, we’ll be lucky to beat the new Luftwaffe. Whatever you say about this Hitler fella – he values his flyers. Wish we had someone like that. They say Churchill makes a stink about the state of our air force in Parliament but no one seems to take any notice.’
‘Well, it doesn’t affect you,’ Edward said tactlessly.
‘What you mean, Corinth? Are you telling me my flying days are over?’
‘No, of course not,’ he corrected himself hurriedly. ‘I just meant the new generation . . .’
‘There aren’t enough of them,’ Bragg said emphatically. ‘And not enough machines for them to practise on for that matter.’
Despite the seriousness of their mission – a mission that demanded speed and justified rejecting the train for the air – there was a holiday atmosphere about their jaunt. Verity had flown very little but loved it and begged Harry to teach her to fly when she was back in England.
‘Glad to but the guv’nor said you were going to Austria.’
Edward scowled and Verity felt her stomach knot. It was true. There would be no time for flying lessons – not this year at any rate. She immediately thought of Adam and wondered where he was and what he was doing. He had sent her a note to say that he had been called away on urgent business but that he would be back in time to accompany her to her new billet. She could only guess at what the business was which had taken him away from her but she trusted him absolutely.
She glanced at Edward and saw the expression on his face. ‘Cheer up!’ she said, taking him by the arm and shaking him. ‘Don’t look like a dying cow. The world’s not going to end quite yet. I’ll be all right, though why you should care . . . It’s kismet, or whatever you call it. If you’re going to sulk every time I go away on an assignment, it’s going to be impossible.’
She seemed to have conveniently forgotten that, on this occasion, she was going with her lover and it was not unreasonable of Edward to be jealous. He had convinced himself that, if he was to have a chance of winning her back, he must not ‘make scenes’ and become – dreaded word – a ‘bore’, but it was not easy. He wondered if, after all, he ought to put up more of a fight – tell her he loved her and that she was not to take lovers – other than himself. He grinned to himself. Who was he trying to fool?
They reached Cannes at five that evening with only one stop on the way to refuel and eat a hot meal. Bragg was cock-a-hoop that the flight had gone so smoothly and professed himself delighted at the way the Electra had behaved. He had achieved a top speed of 300 mph, and a tail wind during the first part of their journey across France had got him talking about ‘breaking records’. Edward and Verity said their goodbyes to Harry as he was returning to England but would come back to collect them if required.
A car was waiting for them – a black Traction Avant Citroën, which amused Edward as he associated it with the French police – and they drove into Cannes where they had reserved a suite at the Carlton. Edward felt comforted to see the great hotel with its twin cupolas, supposedly modelled on the breasts of La Belle Otéro, one of Edward VII’s mistresses. However, once again the luxury put Verity in a bad temper and she inquired why they could not have stayed at some modest hotel instead of ‘this plutocratic monstrosity’. If Edward had any idea that Verity might sleep with him – for old times’ sake – he was unceremoniously disabused of it. He had a fleeting glimpse of a huge double bed in a room large enough to house a family of six, before he was directed to a second smaller bedroom next to the sitting-room.
The suite overlooked La Croisette – Cannes’ palm tree-lined promenade jutting out into the sea – along which holiday-makers and locals strolled, determined to forget international tensions and the posturing of politicians. Beyond, Edward could see the Iles de Lérins. In the evening light, the sea was blue velvet, studded with the lights of the yachts which bobbed lazily on the water. Verity joined him at the window and he suggested a stroll among the crowd of pleasure seekers ambling up and down below them.
‘Quel paradis! Isn’t this what heaven should be?’
‘I don’t believe in heaven, remember?’ she retorted, and then felt she had been boorish. ‘But you’re right, it is beautiful.’
They abandoned any idea of unpacking and were soon on La Croisette breathing in the scent of oranges and unidentifiable herbs wafted to them on the breeze. Edward, daringly, took Verity’s arm and she did not shrug him off. By mutual consent, they put off any discussion of strategy and returned refreshed, half an hour later, to bath and dress for dinner.
The Carlton’s dining-room was elegant and redolent of a more gracious age. Verity suddenly found she was hungry and studied the menu with interest. Edward ordered Veuve Clicquot rosé to drink as they mulled over the bill of fare.
‘Let’s make this special, shall we, V?’ he pleaded. ‘Put aside your principles for a few hours for my sake and enjoy this place. You can’t know how long it will be before it’s blown to smithereens. We may not have many more nights like this – just you and me at peace in such a beautiful place.’
His appeal did not go unanswered and her face softened. ‘Sorry for being a prig. You know me – I love luxury and hate myself for it. Very painful but I won’t take it out on you, I promise.’
Her smile had its usual effect of making him go weak at the knees. It seemed criminal to him that they couldn’t end the evening in bed together but he knew he risked ruining everything if he tried to persuade her. With suitable gravity, they gave themselves up to the pursuit of culinary delight. They finally agreed on fonds d’artichaut with sauce hollandaise, filets de sole Véronique and, to end, pêches pochées au Muscat de Frantignan avec crème anglaise. Edward went into a huddle with the sommelier and chose a white burgundy – the Corton Charlemagne 1928 from Louis Latour. It was everything he had expected – true nectar, cold and delectable after the dusty, uncomfortable flight. At last, over brandy and cigars – Verity insisting on a Havana all to herself – they could no longer delay planning a strategy.
‘The trouble is, I don’t seem to be able to think straight. Was that second bottle of burgundy a mistake?’ Verity asked him dreamily. She wondered if, after all, she would allow him to take her to bed. She so longed to be taken care of and to lie in the arms of this man she loved and trusted. Chastened by a realization of her own lack of moral fibre, she reminded herself that she was in love with Adam. How was he managing, she wondered? She hoped he wasn’t involving himself in some rash opposition to those who would be Austria’s new rulers. But of course he would. She would be, if she were with him. Personal safety had to take second place when set against the creeping evil of Fascism. Adam was convinced that Hitler was about to order his tanks into Vienna and he had told her he wanted to put some steel into the spines of those who would oppose the takeover of their country. She shivered.
‘What are you thinking about, V?’ Edward inquired gently.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Was it Adam? I expect you wish he were here.’
‘No, I am happy here with you . . .’ She put a hand out to touch his. ‘On a job, so to speak. I’ll say it again, if you like. I do love you. But . . .’
‘You love him more?’‘
‘Differently. I’m faithful to you in my fashion, as the song has it. I’m sorry if it’s not enough. Please don’t look like that. I was just hoping he was not in danger.’
‘Why should he be?’
‘He couldn’t say much in his note but I think he may have had to go to Vienna. Things seem to be coming to a head there and I know h
e was involved in setting up some sort of opposition network.’
‘That will be dangerous and almost certainly futile.’
‘Yes, he knows that but he doesn’t want history to say that there were no Germans who stood up to Hitler. Anyway, he seems to think that, because of his family, they wouldn’t dare touch him but I’m sure he’s wrong. They don’t care who they have to kill to get what they want. I can’t bear the idea of him being sent to some awful camp and . . .’
‘He can look after himself,’ Edward said comfortably, irritated that Adam should spoil this perfect moment.
Verity made a little moue. ‘Oh well, let’s get down to business. I favour the direct approach. We simply drive up to the Clinic, ask to see Maggie and find out how she’s faring. She should have had her operation by now and be recuperating. I wonder if Edmund is with her?’
‘I think our first task ought to be to locate Graham Harvey – if indeed he’s here. I have a horrid feeling he may be up to something,’ Edward countered.
‘You’re sure you’re not just making it up – that he’s got it in for Simon – because he’s a Communist and doesn’t care to be patronized?’
‘It’s more than that. There’s a definite grudge there but I’m still not sure what it is – but I mean to ask him,’ he said grimly. ‘In a strange way, I have come rather to like him, or, at least, admire him. He’s got some sort of integrity. His principles aren’t quite mine but I respect them.’
Verity was surprised and rather pleased. It was what made Edward so interesting – she could never quite forecast his views on anything or anyone. ‘If he’s holed up in Cannes, he won’t be at a smart hotel like this. He hasn’t a penny to his name.’
‘I know and he won’t be able to afford to stay here long wherever he is. This isn’t a cheap town. I’ve no idea how to track him down but I have a feeling he will make his presence known somehow.’
‘He’s not a killer, you know,’ she said defiantly.
‘I don’t say he is but he may be provoked into doing something stupid.’
‘Why don’t I go and see Natalie and find out what she knows? If Graham is after Simon, she may have seen him hanging about.’
‘It’s a long shot,’ Edward said gloomily. ‘Does Harvey know about Natalie?’
‘I think he does,’ Verity said, laying down her cigar which was now beginning to make her feel sick. ‘He said something to me about Simon’s mistresses although he didn’t mention Natalie by name. Damn it – now we are here, I’m beginning to think it’s all a wild goose chase. We can’t even be sure he’s in Cannes. He might be in London. He might be anywhere.’
The next morning, over strong black coffee, orange juice and croissants that melted in the mouth, they decided to separate – Verity to take a taxi along the coast to Nice to find Natalie Sarrault, Edward to visit Maggie Cardew in the Clinic. They agreed to meet back at the hotel for a late lunch and reconsider their plan of action in the light of what they had discovered.
Virginia had given Edward the address of the Clinic. She had – rather surprisingly, Edward thought – never visited either the Institute or the Clinic, explaining that she disliked the Riviera and disapproved of sunbathing. ‘My mother always said it was bad for the skin – dried it up. In any case – as she put it – “the peasants are brown because they have to work outside, poor dears, but ladies are able to keep their skin soft and white, with the help of a nightly application of Nivea Creme”.’
Edward thought there was probably more to it than that. Virginia must know that her husband had his mistresses – she probably knew about Natalie – but, as long as he kept them out of sight and preferably in another country, she could ignore them. She certainly wasn’t going to compete with them in what was, for her, an alien environment.
He borrowed a car from the hotel and, with the aid of a map, found his way to the small town of Beauville. There was hardly anyone about but he asked directions from a man walking his dog who knew exactly what he was looking for. Probably, Edward thought, the Clinic was Beauville’s main employer. Half a mile beyond the town he saw a gate and turned into a gravelled driveway. A wooden noticeboard informed him in three languages that this was the Clinic. Director: Dominic Montillo. A string of impressive-looking letters followed his name. A uniformed guard emerged from a small hut where he had been sheltering from the sun and directed him to the visitors’ car park.
Edward drew up in front of the building which – like the Institute – was long, low and white and set in pleasant gardens. He switched off the engine and studied it closely. There was nothing in the slightest degree suspicious about it and he was relieved that he had a bona fide reason for his visit. He did not fancy airing his suspicions that the Clinic was not exactly what it seemed without some evidence.
He put on the wide-brimmed straw hat which he had purchased on a whim the previous evening and pulled at his collar. It was damnably hot and his tie was strangling him. He climbed the white steps, noticing what he thought was a jacaranda among the bougainvillea in the gardens to his left. A hose sprayed a patch of grass to his right. Everything was neat and tidy. The inside was blessedly cool. No one was at the desk but a woman appeared before he had time to ring the bell. He made the little speech he had prepared – that he had been in the neighbourhood and had remembered that his friend, Miss Cardew, was a patient in the Clinic. He added that he was a friend of Mr Montillo’s.
The woman heard him out with a fixed smile which revealed gleaming white teeth. Edward found himself wondering whether they were a gift from the Clinic’s talented director but told himself not to indulge in cheap cynicism. No, Mr Montillo was not expected at the Clinic today. Yes, Miss Cardew was recovering from her operation. She would see whether she was well enough to receive visitors. Five minutes later, Edward was ushered into a cool room, painted white with two or three paintings of exotic flowers on the walls. Maggie was sitting up in bed with several books lying on the table beside her next to a bowl of fruit and a photograph of her mother. He suddenly realized that he had never thought to bring a gift and began at once to apologize.
‘Edward! How very kind of you to come and see me.’ She was finding it difficult to speak because her face was swathed in bandages but she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
‘Please – don’t try to talk. You must be very uncomfortable.’
‘I’m not too bad. This looks much worse than it is. Dominic says most of the bandages can come off the day after tomorrow and then . . . and then we will be able to see how my face looks.’
‘He thinks the operation has been a success?’
‘He says so. He says it went well but he won’t know for another few days yet whether the new skin he grafted on will be rejected.’
‘So when will you be able to go home?’
‘At the end of next week, I hope. It’s all taking a bit longer than I expected. It turned out to be a bigger job than he thought. But, tell me, what are you doing here? I mean, I am so pleased to see you. To tell the truth, I get very bored.’
‘But you have visitors?’
‘A few. My brother . . . but of course he gets bored too. Can I confess something to you? It’s been rather preying on my mind.’
‘Of course!’
‘I’m worried that Teddy spends too much time at the gaming tables. You see, he has never had quite enough money and, I am sorry to say, when he first came here five years ago, he had beginner’s luck and made a large sum of money at the tables.’
‘You are sorry to say?’
‘Yes, because he has been back several times and on each occasion lost money. He is always hoping for another big win but I think he may ruin himself before it happens.’
‘But I thought he had money from his firm – the stockbrokers . . . Thalberg and May, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but he has been working there less and less – he has to be in the House of Commons so much. Although he hasn’t said so, I think the other partners in the firm have a
sked him to leave and politics is such an expensive profession.’
‘I see. Well, I really don’t know what I can do. I can’t think he will welcome interference from me.’
‘Perhaps you could go to the casino tonight and see if he is there?’
‘Which one? There are several.’
‘I think he favours the one on La Croisette in Cannes. I can’t remember what it’s called.’
‘I will call in, of course, and I’ll come and tell you if there is any need to worry. I’m sure there isn’t.’
‘Thank you. You are very kind. I don’t know anyone else I could ask.’
‘He’s not got any other sources of income?’
‘He invested in the Institute. Sir Simon persuaded Dominic to give him a share.’
‘Yes, Virginia told me.’ Edward looked grave.
‘Why? Do you think there is anything wrong?’
‘I’ve told you what I think . . . what I suspect.’
‘But you have no evidence.’
‘No. Not yet. I’m sorry, Maggie, I ought not to have mentioned it. Please forgive me.’
‘No, you ought not,’ she said, her anger muffled by the bandages. ‘What you are implying is slander. I’m tired now. I think it would be best if you went.’
Edward left, glad to be outside in the sunlight after the shadowy cool of the Clinic. He had wanted to ask Maggie if she could do some detective work for him but that was clearly out of the question. He was relieved he had not said anything and been snubbed for his pains. After all, she owed so much to Montillo. She would see it – rightly – as a gross betrayal if she helped gather evidence against him. Still, the fact remained, short of a police investigation – which the French police would never initiate unless they had to – only someone inside the Clinic would be able to find evidence of anything illegal going on there. A casual visitor could never gain access to the records. There must be records – Montillo was too well organized not to keep detailed files on the operations he carried out. Without a shred of evidence to back up his hunch, Edward was more certain than ever that something bad was happening in this clean, cool building and he would not rest until he had found what it was.
A Grave Man Page 25
