‘Isabella was where?’
‘They had rented a house near Smithfield in the City – Cripplegate. Isabella was there with her nanny.’
‘And you can’t think of anything curious . . .?’ he persisted.
Mrs Booth held up her hand almost as though she was warding him off. ‘Just let me think for a moment.’ She wrinkled up her eyes as she thought back. ‘I really can’t remember anything odd,’ she said finally. Edward leaned back in his chair, disappointed. ‘No, wait! I noticed that Hermione had been looking at her photo-graph albums. They were all spread out on the table. I would never have thought of my sister as nostalgic. If she went to her albums, it must have been for some reason – not just idle retrospection.’
‘Have you got the albums here?’
‘Yes. I didn’t know what to do with them. I couldn’t sell them and I couldn’t destroy them.’
‘May I see them?’
‘Of course. They’re in one of the outhouses with the rest of my sister’s belongings.’
Mrs Booth took Edward to the outhouse – little more than a shed – and they looked gloomily at the pile of odds and ends she had not liked to sell or burn. He was inclined to wax philosophical about how little was left from a long life but changed his mind. Hermione Totteridge’s true legacy was her garden and the books she had written.
‘Some people compared her to Gertrude Jekyll,’ her sister said, as if he had voiced his thoughts, ‘but that’s wrong. Jekyll was a garden designer. My sister was more interested in the science of gardening. She knew so much about the way plants work. She discovered several new species and bred literally hundreds of new plants. In the end, I believe her work was more important than Jekyll’s but of course I’m prejudiced.’
‘You admired her a great deal?’
‘I did but I won’t pretend she was easy. It’s no surprise that she never found a man who could live with her. There was an authoritarian streak in her which could be . . .’ Mrs Booth hesitated before settling for ‘off-putting’. She pointed to an old tin trunk. ‘I put the albums in there.’
‘May I take it into the house?’
‘If you want to but I don’t understand why . . .’
‘Nor do I,’ Edward replied, lifting the trunk and finding it heavier than he had expected. ‘But if we can find . . .’ He grunted. ‘How many albums are there?’
‘Seven or eight.’
In the kitchen, Mrs Booth opened the trunk and took out seven battered morocco-bound albums.
‘Can you remember if your sister had been looking at one in particular?’
‘No, I don’t recall any of them being open. I looked through one or two myself. I confess, I’m not a sentimental person but, now both my sisters are dead, I had to weep a little when I found a photograph of our parents. Looking at it, it suddenly struck me there’s no one else alive now who remembers them or me when I was a child. Oh dear! You must think I’m being very maudlin.’
‘Was your sister a keen photographer?’
‘She liked photographing her garden – keeping a record. She was given a box Brownie – one of the early ones – when she must have been about seventeen. She was very proud of it and took to photographing all of us.’
‘Where you were brought up?’
‘In Kenya, but I was the only one who was born there. My father was a farmer and he took advantage of a government offer of assisted passage to Africa and the promise of free land for would-be farmers. Despite having a sickly wife and two small children, he decided to take the risk. He ended up trying to create a farm out of uncleared bush – back-breaking work. I was born a year after they arrived. I must have been an “accident” and doubt I was very welcome as it was difficult enough to feed two children but, if that’s what they felt, they never showed it. In many ways it was a paradise for children. Not for adults, though. We were too young to know about it but it was terribly hard for my parents. Mother got sick and died – a mosquito gave her malaria and we didn’t have quinine. My father struggled on but eventually the farm failed and he died of what I suppose the Victorians would have called a broken heart. It was particularly hard on Daphne. As the eldest she had to take on Mother’s role and look after Hermione and me, at least until my father died.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We were taken in by a nice old couple called Cunningham – it was they who gave Hermione the camera – and we all decamped to England.’
‘When was this?’
‘1874 when I was ten and Hermione was fifteen and promising to be a beauty. Daphne was seventeen and mad about boys. I remember hating England. It was gloomy and so cold after Africa and we had to go to boarding school. We hated it. Daphne and I both got married but Hermione became . . . well, I’d almost say obsessed with gardening. She had caught the bug early. We’d all got interested in gardening as children in Kenya. It was a wonderful place to grow plants. There were diseases, of course, and Hermione was always trying to find ways to keep her crop healthy. We mainly grew vegetables. Our parents encouraged us to help the family economy. I was made responsible for some chickens, I remember. How I loathed them! Anyway, Hermione got keen on the science of it all.’
‘She didn’t get distracted by men?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Booth replied, uncertainly. ‘There weren’t many for her to get keen on, at least not in Africa. I think there was a young man in England but nothing came of it as far as I know.’
‘And Daphne?’
‘Well, as I said, we both got married about the same time. I didn’t have children but she did. Just the one – Isabella.’ She was clearly unhappy at having to recall what happened next.
‘Your husband told me,’ Edward said gently. ‘You brought her up after your sister died . . .’
‘Yes,’ she said abruptly, obviously not wishing to discuss it. ‘Then Isabella went to Kenya – she said she wanted to see where her mother had been brought up and visit her grandparents’ grave.’
‘And she fell in love out there?’
‘Yes. She married a young man called Peter Lamming but he died shortly afterwards. We never even met him.’
‘I was telling your husband,’ Edward said hesitantly, ‘that I knew Peter in Kenya. Until I saw his grave this afternoon I had no idea he was dead.’
Mrs Booth looked at him with renewed interest. ‘You knew Peter?’
‘Not well, but I liked what I saw of him. I must have left Kenya before your niece arrived.’
‘Africa’s a cruel country, Lord Edward. My husband will have told you . . .?’
‘He did,’ he said gently. ‘And then your niece came back to England to live with you?’
‘Yes, but she was never happy again. Her grief was . . . was shocking. Most people fight their way through grief but Izzy could not manage it.’ She looked at Edward challengingly.
‘She died of a burst appendix, your husband said.’ He saw her expression. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to . . .’
She looked at him, her eyes fierce, wet with tears. ‘I would once have said that it was sentimental hogwash to talk of dying of love but that’s what Izzy did. She died of grief for her lost love. The appendix . . . that was just what she chose to die of.’
‘I am very sorry,’ he said gravely. ‘Can I just go back to when you were children? After your father and mother died, you said you all came back to England with the Cunninghams?’
‘Yes, they were very good to us and adopted us like the true Christians they were. They had no family of their own. When they died they left Hermione enough money to buy her house in Henley and start her garden business . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I can’t think it’s . . .’
‘Any of my business?’
‘Relevant to Hermione’s death.’
‘Probably not, but you never know . . .’
Mrs Booth was sorting through the albums. ‘This must be her most recent one. That’s Izzy . . .’
Edward took it and looked at
the photograph. ‘She was very pretty.’
‘She was, wasn’t she?’
He began to turn the pages but stopped and went back a page or two. ‘That’s funny. Do you see? A photograph has been torn out.’
‘So it has,’ she agreed. ‘I wonder why Hermione did that?’
‘I don’t think she did,’ Edward said grimly. ‘I think it was her murderer.’
Edward returned to London feeling that his journey had not been wasted. Mrs Booth had given him the names of her sister’s two maids, her cook and her two gardeners who, she said, would have seen and challenged any strangers prowling around the house. They were fiercely protective of their mistress, she told him, and would certainly know if anything peculiar had happened in the weeks before she died.
It was strange being back in town after his time in Henley. He found he had rather missed the urban bustle and the familiar places of his London life – his flat in Albany, his club, Piccadilly, Jermyn Street, Bond Street. He noticed that, since Anthony Eden’s resignation and subsequent fall from grace, men had given up black Homburgs – which had become known as ‘Edens’ because the Foreign Secretary always wore one and anything he wore was regarded as the height of fashion – and gone back to wearing ‘bowlers’.
As the crowd streamed past him, he thought how narrow most people’s lives were and how their daily routine was restricted to a few familiar streets or, in the case of Hermione Totteridge, to her garden. However much he travelled – and he travelled far more widely than most people – home, as Dr Booth had said, was just an acre or two of familiar country. Or was he being condescending? Verity would say so. One could travel and still be narrow-minded. Better, perhaps, to travel in one’s imagination. How did the poet have it? ‘Put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes.’
It occurred to him that another thing which appeared to link the murder victims – and, indeed, himself – was Africa. Apart from his dentist, they had all been in Africa – and Kenya in particular – at some time or other. He could not help wondering if Harry had anything to do with it. His invitation to stay at Turton House had been fortuitous. The murders had taken place in or around Henley – except for Silver’s and that was different from the others. He was not ready to challenge Harry about his suspicions quite yet. He would merely be laughed at but he must be on his guard.
Edward was in a cab on his way to Victoria to meet Herr von Kleist-Schmenzin’s train. He had travelled via Brussels and, although his visit was informal and nobody was supposed to know he was in the country, Edward had no illusions that anyone who mattered would not be aware of his arrival and watching his every move. The German Embassy would have him followed as, no doubt, would the secret services of several other European countries. One or two of Fleet Street’s more enterprising papers would certainly have got wind of his visit and Edward was frankly dreading that there would be a scrum of interested parties on the platform to greet the German politician.
Major Ferguson had informed him that Kleist-Schmenzin would be arriving at 8.35 p.m. – an awkward time from the point of view of eating but, as usual, the train was running late so he decided he had time for a Dover sole at Overton’s, just outside the station. He was beginning to wish he had refused to act as Kleist-Schmenzin’s nanny. It was probably all going to pass without mishap but he had an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach which spoiled his enjoyment of the fish. He was about to leave when, glancing out of the window, he thought he saw a journalist he knew slightly. He buried his head in the evening newspaper and ordered a second cup of coffee.
Ten minutes later, feeling it was safe to show his face, he bought a platform ticket and paced up and down feeling conspicuous. The train was signalled at last and, with a whistle and a puff of smoke, steamed to a halt. He found the first-class carriages and was alarmed to see no sign of anyone resembling a German landowner and aristocrat. He looked round wildly as the last of the passengers streamed past him issuing imperious commands to porters labouring to balance trunks and suitcases on their barrows. Then, to his great relief, he saw Kleist-Schmenzin. It could only be him. He wore a thick overcoat with the collar up despite the evening being uncommonly warm. He was clasping a heavy suitcase and looked lost.
‘Herr von Kleist-Schmenzin?’ Edward ventured, sup-pressing a smile. ‘Ich bin Lord Edward Corinth. Welches ist Ihr Gepäck?’
‘Ach! Lord Edward. We shall speak English, if you please, so as not to raise suspicion. And you must call me Mr Kleist.’
He smiled as though he had made a clever joke but Edward, whose German was still not fluent, was relieved although he doubted Kleist-Schmenzin could ever be mistaken for anything other than what he was. He knew from Ferguson that Kleist was forty-eight, a lawyer and an ultra-conservative politician who hankered after a return to the monarchy. He despised Hitler as a jumped-up adventurer who was gambling Germany’s future on a war he could not win. He had never made any secret of his views and had been arrested twice in the dying days of the Weimar Republic for speaking against National Socialism. He represented a small group of conservative politicians and army officers whose leader was Ludwig Beck, army chief of staff and a career officer. Beck had endeavoured without success to persuade his brother officers to resign en masse in order to make Hitler see sense.
‘Kleist-Schmenzin’s a brave man,’ Ferguson had opined, ‘but he won’t succeed in persuading us to support him. Even if we wanted to, we could do nothing to help. We have to face the fact that Hitler enjoys the support of the great majority of the German people and the army. Army officers now have to swear an oath of allegiance to Hitler personally – not just as head of state – and they are never going to betray their leader. Kleist-Schmenzin will be seen by most of the army as an out-and-out traitor and dealt with accordingly.’
‘So why are we taking so much trouble over him?’ Edward had asked.
‘Because he is a brave man and because we ought to investigate any group within the Reich who could unseat – or at least unsettle – the Führer. There aren’t so many good Germans that we can afford to ignore them.’
So it was that Edward told himself not to dismiss Kleist as a buffoon. He might be backing a losing horse but his courage could not be doubted. He wondered, if he were in Kleist’s shoes, whether he could act with so little regard for the consequences for himself and his family.
He bundled him into a taxi and sank back with a sigh of relief. At least he had performed the first part of his duties by scooping Kleist up safely and delivering him to Claridge’s.
‘I did not see you get out of a first-class carriage?’ he said, trying to make conversation.
‘I did not travel first class,’ Kleist answered gruffly. ‘I did not want – how do you say? – to draw attention to myself.’
Edward did not like to point out that, dressed as he was, he was much more likely to draw attention to himself in second class.
As he paid off the taxi and prepared to enter the hotel, he saw out of the corner of his eye a man with whom he had crossed swords a year or two back. Major Stille – a deadly enemy of Verity’s – was officially an under-secretary at the German Embassy in Carlton House Terrace, but Ferguson had confirmed Edward’s suspicion that he was in fact a major in the SS and in charge of monitoring the activities of German subjects on British soil. When he looked again Stille had disappeared but Edward was worried. What if his charge was snatched by Stille’s men or even assassinated? He told himself he was being melodramatic. This was London after all, not Sofia or Bucharest.
Once he had checked Kleist into Claridge’s, he thought about going home but his charge had other ideas. He asked Edward to join him for dinner and his face clouded over as Edward started to explain that he had already eaten. Seeing this, Edward changed his mind and said he would find out if they were too late for dinner in the hotel restaurant.
No, Kleist said, he wished to see something of London. Was there not a nightclub nearby? Edward, remembering Stille, suggested that Kleist migh
t wish to keep his head down. After all, wasn’t that why he had travelled second class? Kleist pooh-poohed this, telling Edward what he had already told himself – that this was London, not some Balkan capital.
‘But you must be tired,’ he inquired hopefully. Kleist said he was taufrisch – fresh as a daisy – so, reluctantly, Edward telephoned Ciro’s which was about the most respectable nightclub he knew. He went back to Albany to bath and change, promising to pick up his guest in an hour.
As soon as they arrived at Ciro’s, Edward ordered himself a cocktail from George at the bar and then a second. Thus fortified, he began to feel he might survive the evening. Kleist looked around the attractively decorated room, softly lit by candles, with a smile of satisfaction. Many couples had finished eating and were on the dance floor. Billy Cotton’s band was proving a big draw and the club was crowded. Edward summoned a waiter.
One of the advantages of Ciro’s was that there was no table d’hôte. You chose from an elaborate menu card at one guinea a head or from a shorter menu at twelve shillings and six pence. Edward consulted his guest before ordering but Kleist was too busy soaking up the atmosphere to be able to concentrate so Edward ordered for both of them. He wasn’t very hungry so settled for caviar, Consommé double, Suprême de Volaille and, to finish with, his favourite savoury Anges à Cheval. The chef, Monsieur Rossignol, late of the Deauville Casino, was an old friend so he knew the food would be perfectly cooked as well as being inexpensive. He did not yet know Ferguson’s views on expenses but thought he could run to the Veuve Clicquot 1911. With the soup, he settled for a 1926 Puligny-Montrachet, Château Montrose 1920 with the chicken and a bottle of Cockburn 1912 to settle his stomach after the angels on horseback.
Kleist dug into his caviar and, when he had finished, put down his fork with a sigh. ‘Kennen Sie Herr von Trott, Lord Edward?’
‘Yes, indeed. Adam is a friend of a friend of mine. We saw a lot of him when he was in England a year ago. You know him well? I gather he’s now in the Far East?’
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