Cast the First Stone: A stunning wartime story

by Angela Arney

  ‘That was very resourceful of you, Constable. Have you anything else to add?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing to add.’

  The coroner then questioned Nicholas, Richard and Donald Ramsay. But no-one had witnessed the actual drownings except Liana. A hush fell in the Guild Hall as Liana was called forward. She walked slowly, a tall, erect figure dressed entirely in black.

  ‘Do you remember anything?’ The coroner, a kindly man, doubted it. He noted the pallor of her face and the fact that her eyes stared straight through him. She looked as if she had been walking and sleeping with death.

  ‘Do you remember anything, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, I remember, I remember . . .’ Liana’s voice faded away.

  ‘Yes?’ The coroner prompted, hating what he had to do.

  Liana started again. ‘I remember the sun, the birds; James and I feeding them; William, and then James running out on to the ice.’ Her voice rose on a note of hysteria and she stopped, raising imploring, agonized eyes to the coroner.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then James was in the water, through the broken ice, and William, he . . . oh, God!’ With a sob Liana broke down, covering her face with her hands. Why were they making her live it all again? Wasn’t it enough that James was dead?

  The coroner made up his mind. The evidence was clear. The child had run out on to the ice, the adults had followed and their combined weight had broken the ice. He nodded, and Nicholas came forward and led Liana back to her place with the family. The coroner gave the verdict. ‘Accidental death.’ As far as the world was concerned, the final chapter in the lives of William and James had been written.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘They say time heals everything,’ said Eleanora to Peter. ‘Three years; it ought to be long enough.’ It was Christmas 1965 and they were packing up ready to go back to Hampshire for the holiday. Eleanora had her own flat now, an apartment in Kensington paid for by her parents, but unbeknown to all the folks at home she and Peter lived together, spending most of the time in his flat. ‘But it’s not true,’ she continued, ‘certainly not for my mother anyway.’

  ‘It certainly seems like that,’ Peter agreed sombrely. He looked at Eleanora. Had time healed everything for her? He doubted that it had, but knew she would never admit it.

  ‘I believe in living life to the full,’ was Eleanora’s stock answer whenever anyone commented on the pace at which she lived. She worked harder, laughed louder, and played harder than all her contemporaries with the result that, in the intervening years since James’s death, her achievements had been phenomenal.

  Emerging now, at the end of her studies, with a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice and the distinction of being awarded the prize for the best overall student at the Guildhall School of Music, Eleanora certainly had reason to be proud of herself. Peter was proud, too, but often wondered whether all the hard work was an effort to contain and bury the grief she was still suffering at the loss of James.

  ‘What are your plans, now that you’ve finished at the Guildhall?’ he asked.

  Eleanora looked surprised. ‘Plans?’ she asked. ‘To go to as many auditions and get as many parts as I can fit in, of course. What else did you think?’

  ‘Oh, I thought maybe, you might take a short holiday, stay at home with your mother for a bit.’

  ‘Never!’ Eleanora was adamant. ‘I can’t afford to waste my voice, and I can’t afford to waste time. Anyway, I want to be here in London with you, not stuck down in Broadacres where about the most exciting thing likely to happen is the arrival of a new calf!’

  Peter laughed. ‘You were a country girl once,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Not any more.’

  In some ways it was true, she thrived in the cultural ambience of the city. Eleanora had developed into a sophisticated beauty like her mother, except that she did not resemble her mother at all in features. But Peter noticed they had identical steely expressions when their hearts were set on achieving something. And because of that same steely determination Eleanora was already getting regular recital work, chorus work in operas, and the occasional small solo part. She was as ambitious as she was determined, and Peter was sure she would succeed. But he also knew the sophistication was a thin veneer. Beneath it lay the same impetuous, hot-headed girl he had first met, as emotionally vulnerable now as she had been at eighteen. Like Liana, she hardly ever mentioned the tragedy of the drowning, and only Peter could even guess at how much she was still mourning the loss of her baby brother. But it was more than that – although it would have taken the Devil himself to have dragged it out of her – she was mourning the loss of her mother as well. For the death of James had been a vicious, two-edged sword, severing the life of a child and ending the delicate flowering of affection between mother and daughter.

  ‘I wish we could help your mother.’ Peter got up and drew the curtains, closing in the warmth of the room and shutting out the lights of Chelsea bounded by the leaden grey River Thames. ‘Emotionally she has closed a door, shut herself in an empty room and locked everyone else outside.’

  Eleanora smiled faintly. ‘Only someone like you, a writer, would put it like that. To everyone else she’s turned into a hard bitch.’

  Peter protested. ‘Oh, no, not to everyone. Only to the outside world. I know she has acquired a reputation over the last couple of years for complete and utter ruthlessness in business, but the people at Broadacres know she’s the same inside. Anyway, personally, I don’t think she is that ruthless. She is just very, very good at whatever she does. A lot of people are jealous.’

  ‘Try telling that to my father. If she’s the same, why the hell is he hitting the bottle? And don’t tell me he isn’t, because I damn well know he is. I think he’s ashamed of her. He hardly ever comes up to the House of Lords now; can’t face some of his fellow peers I shouldn’t wonder, especially not the ones my dear mother has ruined financially. Her property business is the scandal of the city; she’s making an absolute killing. That’s why I don’t call myself Hamilton-Howard any longer; my professional name is Eleanora Howard. I don’t want people to know who my mother is.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed you declining the money she lavishes upon you,’ said Peter mildly.

  His reward was an outraged gasp then a sulky reply. ‘I don’t want her money.’

  ‘Then do without it!’

  ‘You know damn well I can’t. How could I pay for my singing lessons? You said yourself I’ve got real talent and I’m proving it. I’m just beginning to make it in the world of opera. I can’t give up now.’

  ‘Why don’t you come right out and admit it? You are as selfish and hard as you say your mother is. Sneer at her if you like. Sneer at her ruthlessness, her apparent love of money at any price, any price! But don’t you understand the price she has paid, is paying, every day? Your mother is dying inside and no-one can help her. God alone knows I’d help her if I could, so would your father, your grandmother and everyone else at Broadacres. They still love her and they all know why she acts the way she does, and why your father drinks a little too much nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, Peter. I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.’ Eleanora flung herself sobbing into his arms. ‘You’re right, of course, but then you always are. I know I’m being selfish but I’m not hard. I loved James, too, but I can’t mourn for ever.’

  ‘I know you loved him. You don’t have to wear sackcloth and ashes to prove that.’ He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair, soothing her like a small child.

  ‘Oh, Peter, I’ve waited patiently just as you asked, because I knew then you were right. I’ve not told anyone we are in love and want to marry. I’ve not disturbed their grief. But how much longer?’ she raised a tear-stained face to his. ‘You said there would be a right time to tell them; that we must wait. But it’s been so long now, I’m beginning to think there never will be a right time.’

  ‘Well,’ Peter kissed her gently. ‘I think the time has almost come. I’ve got a surpri
se for you. I’ve been waiting for you to come back from your singing lesson so that I could tell you.’ He tipped her from his lap and retrieved a sheaf of papers from the cluttered chaos of his desk. ‘Read the top letter.’

  Eleanora scanned it quickly, then squealed with excitement. ‘Your new play is booked for a season at the Haymarket Theatre, and Richard Burton has agreed to play the lead.’ She looked up, eyes shining with pride.

  ‘Read on,’ said Peter grinning.

  ‘A Charity Gala Performance will be held in the presence of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second and His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh on February the sixth nineteen sixty-six.’ She gasped. ‘But that’s next February, only a few weeks away!’

  ‘And the perfect evening to break the news of our engagement to your mother and father and my own parents. We don’t need to ask anyone’s permission. I’m nearly twenty-five, and you will soon be twenty-one. We’ll ask for their blessing, but not their permission.’

  ‘Oh, I can see it now.’ Eleanora sprang up and curtseyed deeply, inclining her head theatrically and murmuring, ‘Your Majesty.’ She looked up, smiling wickedly. ‘Elizabeth Taylor is bound to be there. Should I curtsey to her, too?’

  Peter laughed. ‘Idiot,’ he said fondly.

  In a moment Eleanora had it all planned. ‘We’ll get the whole family up to London; book them into the Ritz; and after the show, have dinner and an engagement party.’ She flopped back down beside him on the settee. ‘This Christmas won’t be so gloomy after all. At least we can talk about your play and the gala performance.’

  ‘And your recent performance in Dido and Aeneas. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Eleanora giggled, her good humour restored. ‘My interpretation of the second witch. It might not have got a mention in the reviews, but that new Italian director, Levi, certainly noticed me. As a matter of fact I think he quite fancied me. He said if I wanted to sing at La Scala he’d find a place for me.’

  ‘Yes, in bed most likely,’ said Peter sharply. He had heard of the Italian director’s reputation with women.

  Eleanora chuckled. ‘Don’t sound so jealous. You’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s old enough to be my father!’

  ‘I know, but that wouldn’t stop him.’

  It was true, the Italian director Levi was old enough to be her father, but even so he had unsettled her in a strange and exciting way. Eleanora had not mentioned it to Peter. What could she say? She was not capable of analysing the feeling even to herself, let alone to anyone else. But there was definitely something about the Italian. Even when not looking directly at him, Eleanora was aware that he was there. The air seemed to hum with an electric current. Levi possessed a blatant animal magnetism and Eleanora had breathed a sigh of relief when he had eventually left London. For the first time since falling in love with Peter, she had been tempted by prurient thoughts of another man. With a shiver, Eleanora now firmly propelled her thoughts back into the present.

  ‘Wasn’t it lovely, seeing Daddy and Gran at the last performance of Dido? Although I wish Mummy had come as well,’ she added wistfully.

  Peter hugged her. ‘She’ll come to your next performance,’ he said. ‘You wait and see.’ And she damn well will, he vowed silently, determined to try and bring mother and daughter together again, even if he had to drag Liana there.

  *

  Liana paused a moment, and put down her pen. It was late at night. Everyone else had gone to bed but she was still working in the library office. She let out her breath in a soft sigh. Nineteen sixty-five and Christmas again already. Tomorrow Eleanora would be coming back to Broadacres. Soon it would be the third anniversary of James’s death. And William’s too, her subconscious reminded her. William! Even now a spasm of pure hatred made her shudder. The fact that she had murdered him caused her no bother. He had murdered James, and for that he deserved to die. She only vaguely remembered the coroner’s inquest. Accidental death by drowning had been the verdict. But Liana had not cared about the verdict. If the police had bothered to ask her, she would have told them what had happened. What would it have mattered if she had been charged with murder? James was dead, everything else was trivial in comparison. But very few questions had been asked, and Liana had been left alone with her grief. The only small measure of comfort at that time was Donald Ramsay repeatedly assuring her that James would have known nothing. Freezing cold water caused almost instant unconsciousness in small children. He had known nothing; she clutched on to that. James had been asleep all the time.

  She looked around at the office; everything looked the same. Three years – how was it possible for time to pass so quickly and yet stand still at the same time? She did not know. But she did know she had hardly paused for breath during those past three years.

  Grief did not alter her meticulous efficiency. If anything, it enhanced it. The first task Liana had set herself after the funeral of James was to find out whether or not William’s story had been true. Was there really an old woman still alive in the village of San Angelo who remembered her? She paid a visit to her lawyer in London to engage the services of a reliable detective.

  ‘I need someone whose discretion will be absolute,’ she said, ‘someone who can speak several foreign languages, preferably French, German and Italian.’ She saw no point in letting him know she was, in fact, only interested in Italy.

  Her lawyer, Jason Penrose, used to working for her and knowing she never took anyone into her confidence unless it could not be avoided, refrained from asking questions. He was curious, though. Which international company was she thinking of bidding for now? And how could she come straight back into business after such a terrible family tragedy? It would have knocked most men sideways, let alone a woman. ‘This firm should suit you,’ he said passing her a card.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took it, gave it a brief glance, then slipped it into her handbag.

  He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘All of us here in the firm offer you and the earl our sincere condolences.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liana in exactly the same tone of voice she had used when accepting the card. She rose to go. ‘Good morning, Jason.’

  ‘My God, what a hard bitch,’ he said to his secretary when Liana had gone. ‘She showed no emotion at all.’

  ‘Perhaps she dare not,’ answered the secretary, who like most women had more sensitivity and insight than the man who was her boss.

  But the ‘hard bitch’ tag stuck. Jason Penrose never disclosed her business moves; he was too shrewd for that, and besides she paid well for his loyalty. But he was a member of all the right London clubs, a world that a woman, no matter how successful, was never allowed to enter. Seated in deep leather armchairs, and over numerous brandies, the businessmen of London deemed the Countess of Wessex to be a hard-hearted bitch. The fact that she was running financial circles around most of them in deals they wished they had thought up themselves, of course had nothing to do with it. The tough world of business was no place for a woman anyway, not unless she was as hard as nails, which, of course, the Countess of Wessex was. Chaps were different; they had loyalties to school or regiment which, of course, always influenced their decisions, and rightly so. They played the game as only men could. The Countess of Wessex had no such rules, and no allegiance to the Establishment. She saw what she wanted and went after it.

  Liana soon heard of her reputation as a hard woman and cared nothing about it. Let them think what they wanted, Jason Penrose and his friends, all of them two-faced snobs. She had other more pressing business. Her first priority was to sort out the matter of the old woman in Italy. She planned it carefully, first choosing a young man from the recommended agency, a Martin Pope, then sending him off first to Paris to investigate the financial standing of a company there, and then on to Bonn for some bona fide business with a German company of which Liana was a director. It was something which Liana could have easily dealt with herself, but sending him across Europe was a good cover. Finally s
he asked him to perform the real purpose of his engagement: to find out if there was anyone living in the village of San Angelo who still remembered the young marchesa.

  ‘If there is, then they must be very old by now, because everyone was elderly when I left. They were all poor, and I’d like to help them in their last days, make their life a little easier.’ Liana explained. ‘But please don’t mention this to anyone. I want to make an anonymous gift.’

  She put off thinking what she would need to do if William’s story were true. First things first. She needed to find out, then she would decide.

  Martin Pope returned, and Liana interviewed him in the small private office she used when working in London.

  ‘Well, Mr Pope?’ Nervous, she sounded abrupt, impatient.

  The brusqueness of her tone made Martin Pope nervous, too, and he stuttered as he began his report. Liana hid her irritation with difficulty. For God’s sake get on with it: the words were on the tip of her tongue but she kept silent.

  ‘My investigation into Valmy Internationale in Paris showed their credit base to be anything but sound. Added to that the president of the company, Monsieur Lacroix, has a very dubious track record, and I have papers here to prove he . . .’

  Liana leaned forward and took the papers, giving them a cursory glance before laying them down on the desk. ‘I’ll read them later. Thank you, Mr Pope. Please proceed.’

  Slightly disconcerted at the speed with which the interview was progressing, he continued, ‘I concluded the business arrangements in Germany as you instructed, and I have here a personal letter for you from the director in Bonn, Herr Fink.’