Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘She must do. Anyway, it’ll be splashed over all the papers tomorrow. Still, maybe I ought to telephone her. It’ll be a terrible shock.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Mrs Brendel broke in, ‘but did you know that Colonel Heron has been arrested? He seemed such a gentleman – I can hardly believe him to be a murderer. When I left Vienna to the Nazis, I thought such horrors were behind me but even here in England . . . to cut off his head! And Mr Gates was such a charming man.’

  Edward looked at Verity. ‘They’ve arrested Heron? I call that precipitate. He didn’t do it, Mrs Brendel,’ he added flatly. ‘I’m almost sure of it.’

  Verity agreed. ‘What motive could he have had?’

  ‘He did have a motive,’ Edward reminded her. ‘Do you remember Byron saying that evening at Monk’s House that Heron had accused him of mistreating his first wife?’

  ‘But why would he “find” the body unless it was some bizarre double bluff? Should we go and talk to the Inspector, Edward?’

  ‘But what do we know? We would just look like interfering busybodies.’

  ‘We have to do something. We can’t let the Colonel be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. Someone set him up, I feel it in my bones. I can hardly believe that yesterday was the fête and Byron was alive,’ Verity said, rubbing her eyes. ‘So much has happened in just a few hours. Our nice, peaceful village has been soiled.’

  ‘I wonder what this chap is like – Inspector Trewen, I mean? I can’t say I took to him last night.’

  ‘I can tell you a little about him, sir,’ Mrs Brendel put in. ‘When Mr Woolf brought me to live here, he introduced me to the Inspector to make sure I was not . . . troubled. He said some refugees had been suspected of spying and he wanted the police to know that I was respectable.’

  Mrs Brendel was as comfortable-looking as an apple strudel and more respectable, but Edward knew that – just as she said – many innocent people, who had fled their country to escape Nazi persecution, faced prejudice and hostility in their new home. Suspicious neighbours and heavy-handed authorities obsessed by the notion of spies and ‘fifth columnists’ tended to see all foreigners as enemies. The police force was a reserved occupation but, even so, a young man with spirit preferred to fight for his country than stay at home to deal with petty crime. Many of the best police had joined the armed forces and some of those who remained were not up to much – either past retirement age or young, ill trained and inclined to be unsympathetic, if not brutal, in their dealings with people who had sought refuge in England. Although Edward would never say so in public, he thought that the force had suffered as a result.

  ‘So what’s he like, Mrs Brendel?’ Verity asked.

  ‘He was very polite to me, mam, but that may have been because I was with Mr Woolf. If I may say so, I thought him rather arrogant and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Not very clever, mam.’

  ‘I still think we ought to go and talk to the Inspector. I’d hate Colonel Heron to think that we assumed he was guilty.’

  ‘As long as that’s all it is, V. We swore we wouldn’t get involved in any investigation. The Inspector wouldn’t welcome it and he’d be right.’

  ‘No, of course not, but still . . .’

  As soon as they had finished breakfast, they drove to Lewes in Edward’s Lagonda.

  ‘What do you think Ada meant last night when she said, “He shouldn’t have done it”?’ Verity asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone’s got to ask her – but not until she has recovered from the shock. I’m worried about her, V. You said that you thought she was very insecure when you talked to her at the fête. God knows what this will do to her. Thank goodness Jean is such a sensible girl. She’s probably in the best position to help Ada come to terms with her loss.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, but of course Byron wasn’t Jean’s father. Poor Ada is all alone in the world now. Whoever killed him may also have dealt Ada a blow from which she may never recover.’

  The police station proved to be a poky little building in the town centre and was already under siege by the press. Edward groaned when he saw the cameras and the notebooks.

  ‘Oh, my God. I didn’t think there would be this much interest, but I suppose it’s only to be expected. Byron was almost famous.’

  ‘And not many people are beheaded in this day and age,’ Verity added grimly.

  As soon as Edward and Verity were recognized, they were surrounded by reporters who immediately made the assumption that Edward was investigating the murder.

  ‘My lord,’ Ken Hines, the News Chronicle crime reporter called out, ‘is it true that you were a friend of the murdered man?’

  ‘Please, let me through. I’m sorry, Ken, but I can’t tell you anything.’ Edward had had dealings with the reporter once or twice before and liked him.

  ‘But you are investigating the killing?’

  ‘I am not investigating anything. Now please make way. Thank you, Constable.’

  A burly constable opened the door of the police station and put out an arm to hold back the mob.

  ‘I wonder if this is wise,’ Edward muttered, his nerve weakening. ‘Perhaps we should have telephoned the Inspector. You realize, V, that your beastly rag will be on to you for a piece about the murder?’

  ‘Well, I shan’t oblige,’ she replied unconvincingly. ‘I’m a foreign correspondent not a crime reporter.’

  The trouble was that, whatever she might say, she was a newspaper reporter through and through and, even though it wasn’t strictly in her remit, she could not ignore a good story when it was served up to her gift-wrapped. She told herself that she could at least be accurate and protect the girls if she were to write the story, but wouldn’t she be betraying both them and also Colonel Heron?

  ‘The Inspector cannot see anyone,’ the constable at the desk informed them when they had given their names.

  ‘We are friends of Colonel Heron,’ Edward said firmly, stretching the truth, ‘and we have some information relating to the murder.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. I will, of course, tell the Inspector . . .’

  At that moment, Inspector Trewen himself appeared.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he growled. ‘The amateur detective. You have no doubt already discovered the murderer?’ The contempt in his voice was almost palpable.

  ‘I am not a detective, amateur or otherwise,’ Edward replied icily. ‘I merely wanted to help the police in their inquiries but I see you are not interested in any information I might have so I shall leave. Here is my card if you wish to see me at any time.’

  ‘Well, now you are here, I suppose I might as well see you, but I can only give you five minutes,’ Trewen said grudgingly.

  ‘Verity, will you wait for me here?’ Edward was worried she might lose her temper and say something she would regret if the Inspector proved to be as hostile as he expected. She started to protest but, seeing Edward’s face, reluctantly nodded her head.

  The Inspector plumped his large frame down in the chair behind his desk. There was a metal chair in front of the desk but Edward was not invited to sit on it. He did so anyway.

  ‘Well, what is it you have to tell me?’ the Inspector rasped, lighting a foul-smelling pipe.

  Edward kept a check on his temper. ‘I understand you have arrested Colonel Heron for the murder of Byron Gates. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is. The Colonel’s sword was used to behead Mr Gates. His fingerprints were on the sword and it was bloody. His hands also had blood on them, as did his clothes. I arrested him at his house last night.’ The Inspector looked pleased with himself.

  ‘What motive did he have, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s not something I can discuss with a member of the public.’

  ‘Very well but, since it was Colonel Heron’s sword, it’s hardly surprising that his prints were found on it,’ Edward retorted.

  The Inspector grunted.

  Edward tried again.
‘One thing occurs to me, Inspector. I’ve never tried it myself but I seem to remember from the history books that it is quite difficult to cut off a man’s head with a sword. You have to saw away at the neck – particularly if the sword is blunt. I assume that, if this sword was last used in 1706 at the Battle of Ramillies, as the Colonel told me it was, it is hardly likely to be sharp.’

  Edward was purposely trying to shock the Inspector and believed he was succeeding. Trewen took his pipe out of his mouth and looked rather queasy.

  ‘Of course, it was dark when I saw the body,’ Edward went on remorselessly, ‘but I have a powerful torch and I noted that the head seemed to have been quite neatly severed from the trunk. Have you considered that Mr Gates may not have been killed by the sword but by an axe or some other sharp, heavy instrument? It’s only a suggestion, mind you, but worth exploring before you assume you have arrested the right man. As for the blood, Colonel Heron could easily have got blood on his hands and clothes without actually having killed Mr Gates. For one thing, he removed the bloody head from the mouth of his dog who had found it. Furthermore, he reported finding the body to Constable Watt – hardly the action of a guilty man, I would have thought. What is more, I am quite convinced that, when he came to our house afterwards, his shock and horror were genuine.’

  ‘Why did he come to see you?’ the Inspector asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because he knew that in the past I have been involved in a number of criminal investigations though, as I hope I have made clear, I will not be getting involved in this case.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Amateur Sherlocks always make it harder for the professionals to get at the truth,’ Trewen said rudely. ‘Well, Lord Edward,’ he added, making an effort to be polite, ‘I appreciate you taking the time to come and see me but, really, I think you can put the whole thing out of your mind. The murder is gruesome but the murderer made no effort to disguise what he had done and there’s an end of it.’

  ‘Has Colonel Heron admitted to murdering Gates?’

  ‘Not exactly but we have witnesses to the fact that he had threatened him.’ The Inspector realized he was giving this meddling aristocrat more information than he needed to and stopped. ‘Be that as it may, Lord Edward, you can safely leave the matter in our hands. We are not all the bumbling bobbies you like to paint us.’ He laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘“You can safely leave the matter in our hands” – is that what he said?’ Verity was indignant. ‘We’re certainly not going to.’

  Edward looked at her quizzically but said nothing. Verity, as a long-time Communist, had a suspicion of the police which had not been allayed by finding one or two policemen who she had grudgingly to admit were honest and competent. In her experience, the police wasted too much time monitoring the Communist Party and not enough on frustrating the dark designs of the Fascists.

  ‘And there was no question of you being allowed to see Heron?’ she continued.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘He has a solicitor, I presume.’

  ‘Apparently so. The constable on the desk told me before I left that he’s a local man called Murchison who will, I am sure, know that he’s completely out of his depth with a case like this and pass the whole thing over to a London firm with experience in criminal matters. I’ll try and see Murchison tomorrow. I’m going to suggest he consults Tom Hutchinson. He’s a partner in Tenbury and Cootes and a pal of mine from way back. One of the best.’

  ‘You’re not going to leave it at that, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean? No, V, you can’t be serious. I thought we’d agreed last night that there would be no more investigating. We’re going to have these last few weeks together to rest and enjoy country life.’

  ‘I can’t help noticing, Edward, that – even in the short time we’ve been down here – you have sometimes looked bored. When you got that summons to go to London, your eyes lit up. I’m afraid we are just not the sort of people who can sit back and do nothing in a crisis. And, what’s more, your conscience won’t allow it. You can’t let Heron be hanged because you’re too idle to find the real murderer.’

  ‘I say, V,’ Edward began weakly, ‘that isn’t fair. . .’

  ‘Who said life was ever fair? It certainly hasn’t been fair to Ada.’

  ‘Oh, God, why are there no good coppers around?’ Edward demanded. ‘My instinct tells me that Inspector Trewen is one of the worst.’

  ‘We have to find the murderer for Ada’s sake,’ Verity went on remorselessly. ‘And for Jean – but mainly for Ada. She’s not in good shape and, if she ever found out that her father’s murderer had got off and someone else had been hanged in his place, it might destroy her.’

  ‘Stop, V! Stop, I beg you. I always knew this was what marriage would be like. You tell me what to do and I do it.’

  ‘We do it,’ Verity said, giving him a kiss.

  ‘Lord Edward, this is a very great pleasure. Do sit down.’

  It was Monday morning and Edward was ensconced in an armchair in Mr Murchison’s comfortable office in Lewes. He was a country solicitor of the old school. There was nothing brash, nothing flash about Mr Murchison and he reminded Edward of his brother, the Duke’s, solicitor. Generation after generation, these men had looked after the landed gentry and the aristocracy, piling up in tin deed boxes family secrets – financial embarrassments, unsuitable marriages, sudden deaths and necessary confinements of the mentally unstable or the criminal. Discreet until and beyond the grave, they very occasionally defrauded their clients but were, for the most part, society’s gatekeepers and the acme of respectability. The complete trust their clients had in their integrity ensured that, if they did sometimes fall below the standards of rectitude they had set themselves, it might take several generations before anything was proved against them.

  In the main, they deserved their reputation as the glue that kept the social order in place, the buttresses of a society that put land above money and old money above new money, and measured respectability in acres owned. The Great War had perhaps loosened the glue but the landowners great and small still retained their power and position despite the loss of sons and heirs, the coming of universal suffrage and the tide of democracy lapping at the castle gates.

  ‘It is very good of you to see me.’ Edward was at his most affable and aristocratic. He knew how these men loved a lord. ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Mr Murchison. I’ve come about this horrible business of Mr Gates’s death. I understand Colonel Heron has been arrested. It seems to me quite ludicrous that just because he found the body and his fingerprints were on his sword – the sword which the police think, wrongly in my view, was used to kill Mr Gates – he should be accused of murder. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help?’

  Mr Murchison beamed and then, feeling perhaps that smiles were inappropriate, rearranged his face to look shocked and saddened.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Lord Edward. Of course, I am aware of your reputation as an investigator but I really think there is very little that can be done, at least until Colonel Heron is charged. The police have, as you say, arrested him on suspicion of murder and they must decide whether or not to charge him in the next forty-eight hours.’

  Edward was genuinely shocked. ‘Surely you believe him to be innocent? I don’t know him well – my wife and I have only just moved to Rodmell – but he seems to me a most respectable man. I would have said he was the last person to go around beheading people – even if it were possible to do so with a sword, which I’m inclined to doubt. In any case, what possible motive could he have?’

  ‘Well, there we are. He did have a motive. He tells me that the first Mrs Gates – Marion – was a close friend of his. Between ourselves, I believe there may have been something between them. That must have been before she married Mr Gates,’ Mr Murchison added hurriedly. ‘I am only guessing, you understand, but Colonel Heron has very strong feelings on the subject of Gates’s behaviour. In fact, there are witnesses to an i
ncident in the local pub who say they heard him threaten Mr Gates. He was heard to say that he intended to “mete out justice” and that Mr Gates deserved to have his head chopped off.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gates mentioned the incident the first time I met him. However, he said the Colonel had come round and apologized the following day and they had agreed to forget about it. Heron had a motive for hating Mr Gates, I grant you, but not for murdering him.’

  ‘I hope you are right, Lord Edward, and that the police share your view.’

  Edward hesitated before asking, ‘What exactly did Colonel Heron tell you was his reason for threatening Gates?’

  ‘Well, it’s very delicate but since you are . . . I presume I can count on your absolute discretion?’ Edward nodded and Mr Murchison seemed satisfied. ‘The Colonel seems to believe that Marion died of what the poets used to call a broken heart on account of Gates’s philandering.’

  ‘I thought she died of cancer.’

  ‘That was what was on the death certificate but the Colonel decided not to believe it, and it is true that, as a document of record, they often prove erroneous. To spare a relative grief, a doctor may choose to attribute death to a chill or a fever rather than some unpleasant disease carrying a social stigma.’

  ‘You mean, like syphilis,’ Edward said bluntly.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘You are not suggesting that in this case . . .?’

  ‘No, no . . . I was merely making a general point. I have no reason to doubt that Marion Gates died of cancer. I am simply saying that it is not totally unreasonable for my client to question it. Grief may well have been a contributory factor, but no doctor can say that it was a cause of death.’

  ‘I accept Marion could have been Heron’s motive, though not a very strong one unless she really was the love of his life.’

  ‘I agree, of course, Lord Edward, but would a jury share our opinion? I fear they might not.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that Gates was a philanderer – unprincipled where women were concerned . . .’ Edward conceded.

  ‘A priapic – I understand it is a medical condition,’ Mr Murchison said, looking down his nose.