The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘He frightens me too, sometimes,’ Edward said drily.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, turning to Edward, ‘that he made me transfer out of POUM to a different unit.’

  Pride looked at Edward for clarification.

  ‘POUM was not strictly part of the International Brigade, Chief Inspector. It was Anarchist and Trostkyist while the International Brigade is Communist-controlled. As soon as they were powerful enough, the Communists liquidated POUM and other non-Communist fighting units.’

  ‘Liquidated?’ Pride asked, puzzled.

  ‘Told them they had to join the Communist Party.’

  ‘And if they wouldn’t?’

  ‘They got killed, one way or another,’ James said.

  Pride looked shocked. It was just as he supposed. Communists and Fascists – there was nothing to choose between them.

  ‘Let’s get back to the day your father died,’ he said. ‘What time did you get to the Foreign Office?’

  ‘I got there about three thirty.’

  ‘But you didn’t get to see him until four thirty. What did you do for an hour?’

  ‘I walked about a bit. I remember I stood on the bridge in the park and watched the ducks. I wanted to think things out, don’t you see. It was warm. I sat on a bench.’

  ‘You brought your father a present?’

  James blushed guiltily. ‘I didn’t buy him anything. I just noticed that Guy smoked the same cigarettes as my father – you know, those expensive ones.’

  ‘Murad – Turkish, aren’t they?’ Edward put in.

  ‘That’s right, and when I told him, Guy said why didn’t I take him some.’

  ‘You took a packet or was it a tin?’ Edward asked urgently.

  ‘They were in a box.’

  ‘Loose? They weren’t in the manufacturer’s box?’

  ‘No. Guy took them out of their box in the drawing-room and put them in another one – a cigar box, I think it was – that was sitting on the table.’

  It was not until he was back in Albany – after delivering James to his aunt – that Edward remembered he had still not told the Chief Inspector about the powder compact the constable had found in the Thames near to where Westmacott had been found hanged. He wondered if he had really forgotten or if he had deliberately forgotten. He had been reading Freud again and found his theories on the unconscious most illuminating. He was about to dial Scotland Yard and confess everything when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver to hear Jack Spot’s rather hoarse voice at the other end.

  ‘I’d heard you were back, my lord, and that Miss Browne had been wounded.’

  ‘Yes, Spotty. Her friend, Gerda Meyer the photographer, was killed. Verity was lucky,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Could I see her, do you think? I mean, not if she’s too ill,’ he added hurriedly. ‘But everyone is saying she did wonders and that her reports in the New Gazette and the Worker did more for the cause than anything.’

  Edward thought for a moment and was about to speak when Spotty added, ‘And I’ve got some information about . . . you know.’ He was being discreet.

  It occurred to Edward that it might cheer Verity up to have an admirer at her bedside and that it would take her mind off her woes if she got drawn into the investigation about Westmacott’s death. So he said, ‘Yes, indeed. We mustn’t tire her but I know she would like to see you again and hear what you have discovered.’

  Edward gave him the address of the Hassels’ house in the King’s Road and asked him to be there at six unless he rang to say she was not well enough. When he telephoned Verity, she was eager to hear what Spotty had to say. ‘Why not ask James to come and we could all have a cosy supper here? Charlotte won’t mind, will you, Charlie?’

  There was a muttered colloquoy off stage and then she said, ‘Charlie says she’s out at a conference this evening but that would be all right. She’ll leave us a shepherd’s pie.’

  Edward rang James and he accepted with alacrity, sounding eager to remove himself – if only for a few hours – from his aunt’s house. Edward talked to her and fortunately it turned out she ‘liked a lord’ and was quite charmed to hear that he had taken an interest in her nephew.

  ‘I tell him, Lord Edward,’ she simpered, ‘he ought to give up this Communism. Such a lot of nonsense. I’ve told him, I’ll have no Communist in my house.’

  Edward felt deeply sorry for James. He hoped, however, he would be sensible enough not to tell his aunt that he was also going to see the arch-Communist, Verity Browne, along with the socially acceptable Lord Edward Corinth.

  ‘Well,’ Spotty said with satisfaction, ‘I can tell you who didn’t kill Mr Westmacott.’

  Through the blue haze of cigarette smoke – Edward, Verity and Adrian Hassel were all smoking and Spotty was puffing away at one of his foul-smelling cigars – expectant looks could just be made out. They were sitting around Verity’s bed. She had wanted to get up but the doctor had refused to allow it ‘for at least another week’. It had been quite touching to see the way Jack Spot had greeted Verity. He was genuinely in awe of her and it came to Edward that she was now a famous figure and, for the Left, a hero. Spot shook her hand and bowed. ‘I’m greatly honoured, Miss Browne.’ He touched the scar on his face. ‘Now you, too, wear one of these but, whereas mine makes me want not to look in the mirror of a morning, yours is a medal to wear with pride – makes you look . . . dashing.’

  Verity blushed but said with dignity, ‘Thank you, Spotty. It’s really Lord Edward and Mr Lyall who are the heroes. Without them, I would be dead. Simple as that.’

  She had not looked at Edward and kept her eyes firmly on the ugly face of the gangster in front of her but Edward felt his heart go out to her. It was not her way to be gushing but she was acknowledging that she was glad he had followed his instincts and gone to Spain to be with her in her hour of extreme peril.

  Suddenly he felt claustrophobic. It was a big room but the four of them – James, Adrian, Spotty and himself – were squashed together and he was feeling stifled.

  ‘Open a window, will you, James?’ Edward said, coughing. ‘My brain can’t breathe. Who’s at this conference of Charlotte’s, then, Adrian?’

  ‘Bloomsbury lesbians,’ Adrian said dismissively.

  ‘What’s a lesbian?’ James asked.

  Verity told him and he looked stunned.

  ‘I knew about Guy, of course,’ he said, trying to sound grown up,’ but that’s . . . toe-jam. Women don’t do that sort of thing, do they?’

  ‘Women do whatever men do,’ she said in her lecturing voice.

  ‘Everything?’ James looked horrified. He saw Edward smiling and blushed. He got up quickly and struggled with the window. Soon a breath of cold evening air dissipated the smoke. Stubbing his cigar out in an onyx ashtray, Spotty went on. ‘It weren’t either the Communists or Mosley’s mob.’

  ‘I never thought it could have been Mosley’s lot,’ Edward said. ‘Vicious though they are, they don’t have the balls for that sort of enterprise.’

  ‘And I never thought the Party would sanction murder,’ Verity remarked, with what Edward decided was unjustified confidence.

  ‘So, Spotty, who was it? You look like the cat who’s got the cream’.

  ‘The evidence points to it being one Major Stille, from the German Embassy.’

  ‘No surprise there, then,’ Edward retorted.

  Spot looked put out that his news had gone for nought.

  ‘Sorry, Spotty,’ Verity said, ‘but you see we have had dealings with Major Stille before. Don’t you remember? At the battle of Cable Street, I discovered Stille in civilian dress on our side of the barricades, making trouble.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember now, Miss Browne.’

  ‘What’s your evidence that Stille’s behind this?’ Edward demanded.

  ‘It’s all a great secret. No one will talk. Usually, when someone’s taken out a contract I’m the first to know about it. But not this one. Top secret and that costs, I c
an tell you.’

  ‘What’s that – a contract?’ James inquired.

  ‘You see, sonny, when you wants someone done away with there are always a few hard men that’ll do it for you . . . for a price, mark you. But not as much as you might suppose.’

  ‘So how did you find out who had done it?’

  ‘I set the dogs on it and they ferreted it out. Can’t say any more than that, my lord. More than my life’s worth.’

  ‘No evidence to stand up in court then?’

  Spotty looked indignant. ‘Who said anything about court, my lord? You wanted to find out who killed Mr Westmacott and I’ve told you. Tell you any more and I’m dead meat.’

  ‘I understand, Spotty,’ Verity said, ‘and we’re very grateful, aren’t we, Edward?’

  ‘Yes, of course, extremely grateful. If there’s anything . . .’ He touched his jacket where his wallet lodged.

  ‘Certainly not, my lord! I’m no informer. I am happy . . . always happy to aid Miss Browne in her investigations but I don’t need no money.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Spotty. I had no wish to insult you. So there’s no way we can express our gratitude?’

  ‘It’s enough being here with Miss Browne, my lord, in her bedroom. They’ll be green with envy when they hears it.’

  Verity coloured but smiled. ‘You’d better call it my sickroom, if you please, Spotty.’

  ‘Do you think this has anything to do with my father’s murder?’ James said in a small voice.

  ‘Oh, James. You must think we are being very heartless. We ought not to be facetious talking about murder . . .’ Verity checked herself.

  ‘I don’t mind. I want to help if I can. You see,’ he went on bravely, looking at Edward, ‘if you solve Mr Westmacott’s murder, I think you will find out who killed my father.’

  ‘You know, James, I think you are right,’ Edward said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, I am going to have another talk to the people who worked with your father and Mr Westmacott. Pride says they have nothing more to tell – that they know nothing – but I don’t believe it. I think he hasn’t asked the right questions.’

  ‘I hope you do find out something,’ James said, looking very pale, ‘because I think Chief Inspector Pride believes I killed my father. It looks bad, doesn’t it? I gave him cigarettes just before he died of nicotine poisoning. I had quarrelled with him. I was the last person to see him alive. But for all that,’ he looked around him as if wanting to impress a jury, ‘I didn’t kill him. I loved him and I would give anything to have him back.’

  Vansittart had appointed an earnest young man called Alfred Caddick to run the department and take over Lyall’s work. However, Caddick had not yet taken up his position and Edward commandeered his office to interview the staff.

  Harry Younger was complaining about the extra work. ‘It’s all very well, you know, but it’s not fair, sir. We were working flat out as it was and our work is important.’

  Edward liked the young man rather less than he had the first time they had met. He was still the clean-limbed, ex-public schoolboy but there was something in his tone of voice which grated on Edward’s ear. Still, he reminded himself, Younger was a cricketer so he couldn’t be all bad.

  ‘You live at home?’

  ‘I do. My mother’s a widow and I’m . . . you know, her favourite. Anyway, it’s easier and cheaper to live at home.’ He giggled nervously. ‘I don’t have to worry about my washing and she’s the best cook in the world.’

  ‘But it must be difficult to see girls – socially, I mean?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a bind, I grant you. To tell the truth, I don’t see many girls. I go down to the pub most nights.’

  ‘So, no girls?’ Edward felt he was prying and tried to sound as if he were one of his pub friends.

  Younger sounded annoyed. ‘I didn’t say that. I get my oats, though I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Edward responded hurriedly. ‘I apologize.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Younger said huffily.

  ‘I suppose I was just trying to get a feel for the department’s social life. You don’t seem to see much of each other outside the office.’

  ‘McCloud’s all right but I don’t go much for art. As I told you last time, we sometimes have a pint together after work though. He’s stuck on Miss Williams but she won’t have any of it. She’s got a steady. In the RAF, she told me once.’

  ‘She seems a nice girl.’

  ‘She’s a doll. Quite a looker but she don’t look in my direction, worse luck. Talks a bit too much though for my taste. Women should be seen and not heard, eh?’

  He gave Edward a rather sly look which he could not quite interpret.

  ‘Miss Hawkins rules you all with a rod of iron?’ Edward smiled to show whose side he was on. Younger responded with a dry laugh.

  ‘We call her the Hawk. You can see why – we can’t get away with anything. Mind you, she had a soft spot for Lyall. I don’t think he noticed but talk about slavish devotion.’

  ‘So how could Westmacott have had papers in his briefcase that Miss Hawkins knew nothing about?’

  ‘Did he? I thought he only had . . . Well, if he did, he must have got them somewhere else. What papers were they, anyway?’

  ‘It’s easy to get hold of secret papers, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant if Westmacott had taken a secret file on Bawdsey Manor, he must have got it from somewhere else. Savvy?’

  ‘Bawdsey Manor?’ Edward asked sharply. ‘Why do you say that? What do you know about the place?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Younger said quickly. ‘Lyall told me about it. I saw a file on his desk and asked him.’

  ‘Well, he ought not to have told you. It’s top secret.’

  ‘Of course,’ Younger looked chastened, ‘I wouldn’t say anything to anyone outside this office.’

  ‘Nor inside either, I hope,’ Edward said grimly.

  ‘No, certainly.’

  ‘How’s the flying going?’ he said as he showed Younger out.

  The boy looked at him, startled and, Edward thought, almost frightened. He pulled himself together.

  ‘The flying? Yes, I told you about that, didn’t I? Haven’t done any recently as a matter of fact. Overworked – don’t have the time.’

  McCloud was louder than ever and his body odour more noticeable, even above his foul-smelling pipe. Edward wondered if it was because he was nervous. He was altogether too obvious and Edward was reminded of what Adrian had said about him the previous night while they were eating shepherd’s pie.

  ‘He’s clever – no doubt about that. He was a wiz at crosswords. I’m not surprised, now I think about it, that he ended up at the Foreign Office making sense of statistics.’

  ‘But . . . ?’

  ‘But he was a rotten painter. I know I’m no great shakes but at least I’m me, if you understand what I’m driving at. McCloud could imitate well enough . . . turn out a passable Monet or Whistler. I remember him doing a copy of a Sargent – an aristocrat – riding boots, breeches, coloured waistcoat, riding crop. It was brilliant.’

  ‘I know the picture you mean,’ Edward said. It was a painting of his father and hung at Mersham Castle but he was not going to mention it. McCloud must have seen it when it was shown at an exhibition of Sargent’s work at the Tate some years back.

  ‘In a funny sort of way, he was likeable – a pet monkey or perhaps more like an ape. He got a lot of women because he could make them laugh but they didn’t stay. Women are better at spotting fakes than we are and he was a genuine fake.’

  ‘Mr McCloud,’ Edward began, ‘sorry to bother you and all that. I gather from Younger that you’re pretty busy.’

  ‘That’s right. Van hasn’t really got down to reorganizing the department. Between ourselves, I don’t think this man Caddick’s going to be up to the job.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘No, but people tal
k,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose with his finger.

  Edward was certain Sir Robert would object to the familiarity of ‘Van’ but, if McCloud wanted to show off, he would let him.

  ‘So might they put you in charge of the department?’ he asked, feigning wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Not quite the right type,’ McCloud said, taking the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Van wants pinstripe suits not artistic types like me. Too creative, I suppose.’

  ‘Shame. You don’t mind me asking a question or two? I know the police have been through it all with a fine-tooth comb but there are just a few things . . .’

  ‘Carry on, old boy. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘You found Lyall dead?’

  ‘No, Miss Hawkins did. I was just leaving the office – had my hat and coat on – when I heard her call out.’

  ‘You telephoned the police – why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t look right somehow. Lyall had clearly died in pain but that wasn’t it. It was just something about the body . . .’

  ‘There was no smell or skin discoloration?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. He always looked yellow . . . too many smokes.’

  ‘And the chrysanthemum . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I moved the cigarette box and there it was. I thought it was odd.’

  ‘You didn’t put it there yourself?’

  ‘Of course not! What are you suggesting . . .?’

  Edward ignored the outrage in McCloud’s voice. ‘Could anyone in the department have slipped the poisoned cigarettes into Lyall’s box?’

  ‘I suppose so. Or a visitor – though he didn’t have many of those. Yes, we were always popping our heads round the door to ask him something or make our reports.’

  He seemed either unworried or unaware that Edward was implying Lyall must have been murdered by a member of his department.

  ‘And you had weekly meetings, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, on Mondays, but that’s by the by, isn’t it? It wasn’t just a question of access to Lyall’s office. You would had to have been there alone for at least a minute to give you time to take the cigarettes out of your pocket and slip them into the box on his desk.’