Authors: David Roberts
‘How long would it take – the operation?’
‘Only a day but he would want to me to stay for at least a week so he can dress it and keep an eye on me. Apparently, there’s a chance the new skin may not take. He’s been very honest about the risks.’
‘But you wouldn’t be any worse off if it fails?’
‘He says not. I know you don’t like him but he’s very experienced.’
‘I don’t know what to make of him, Miss Cardew.’
‘Please call me Maggie.’
‘To be frank, I’m not entirely happy with the hospital or whatever it is he runs down there in the South of France.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to slander him.’
‘You have to tell me now. After all, if you know something and you let me go there without telling me . . .’
‘There’s a rumour that he carries out abortions there,’ Edward said flatly. ‘It may not be true but . . .’
‘That doesn’t shock me. I think our law is medieval. Poor girls are left to the not-so-tender mercies of back street abortionists. They suffer at the hands of dirty, untrained, struck-off doctors or worse . . . I think under certain circumstances abortions ought to be allowed and carried out in hospitals.’
Edward was shocked but tried not to show it. ‘I have always thought life to be sacred.’
‘I’m not advocating murdering babies but if it’s early enough . . . Well, let’s forget it, but what you say isn’t enough to put me off.’
‘There is one other thing. Can I ask you not to repeat this to anyone because it is slander, unless I can prove it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Eugenics. I expect you’ve heard Sir Simon and Montillo talking about it. Do you know what it involves?’
‘It’s the science of improving the health of the race, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not a true science, in my view. It means the poor and the weak are prevented from breeding.’
‘How?’
‘Various ways. Castration is the most brutal but this whole notion of race is suspect. We are all mongrels with blood from a hundred invasions and intermarriages from time immemorial. The Aryan race that Hitler keeps going on about is a fantasy. It doesn’t exist. It never has and even if it had there would be nothing special about it. It’s just an excuse for singling out the Jews and anyone else they don’t like the look of and eliminating them.’
‘Surely you exaggerate.’
‘I wish I did. Take, for instance, this absurd expedition Sir Simon is planning to Tibet. You heard him talk about it?’
‘Yes. I thought it sounded very exciting.’
‘The purpose, as he explains it, is pure lunacy – to measure the heads and other physical features of the Tibetan nobility to see if they are Aryans. You must see that it’s ridiculous.’
‘But not dangerous.’
‘Of course it’s dangerous! People like Sir Simon are encouraging a fake science that pretends to differentiate between people. Some are to be designated
Übermenschen
and others can be treated as subhuman.’
‘I think you are mistaken. Sir Simon would never subscribe to such . . . theories.’
‘I don’t say he would but others will.’
‘Like Mr Montillo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Roddy and Isolde seem to live at Swifts Hill,’ Maggie said suddenly, changing the subject.
‘They do seem to be there a lot. They’re not well off, I gather, and no doubt Swifts Hill is better than being stuck in some stuffy London flat.’
‘I think there’s more to it than that. Roddy hasn’t got a proper job and I think he’s hoping Sir Simon will take pity on him and offer him something.’
‘But Sir Simon’s not there a great deal, is he?’
‘No, but dear Ginny has a lot of influence over him so it does them no harm to be nice to her.’
‘Now, surely, you are being a bit cynical?’ Edward suggested.
‘I suppose you think I’m a bitter old maid.’
‘I think nothing of the sort. I think you are a very attractive woman with a sharp tongue.’
‘Does that frighten you?’
‘It might if I hadn’t known Verity for so long.’ He laughed to show he was joking.
‘She seems to have fallen for that German boy. I did warn you he was dangerous.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ he said curtly.
‘He is very good-looking.’
He glanced at her. ‘You’re teasing me.’
‘Maybe. So what do you think? I’m offered this chance to have an operation. Dominic won’t charge me for it and, whatever you say about him, he’s a brilliant surgeon. But if I go away and my mother dies . . .’
‘She’ll want you to grab your chance. Ask her. She’s not a selfish person and she loves you.’
‘You’re right. I will.’
‘And can I take you out to dinner?’
‘Before or after?’
‘Your operation? Either. To me you are beautiful with or without your scar.’
10
Verity was feeling wretched. She knew perfectly well that she was behaving badly towards Edward but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She could not stop thinking of Adam. She longed to be with him and she no longer thought of going back to Spain or her friends there. If this wasn’t love, it was something worse.
In the meantime she went in to the
Daily Worker
to deliver an article on the idle rich of the Côte d’Azur. She had asked Morris Block, the editor, if he would like a few hundred words on the Duke of Windsor but he told her it was their policy – as she ought to know – never to mention the royal family, even to attack it. ‘It’s an irrelevance, Miss Browne, and will be swept away with the class system when the time is right. We would do it too much honour to mention it.’
There was a sneer in his voice which annoyed her. Why was it that neither the editor of the
Daily Worker
nor the editor of the
New Gazette
liked her? Neither could deny that she had delivered more than her fair share of scoops. If it weren’t for the fact that her father financed the
Daily Worker
and Joe Weaver backed her at the
New Gazette
, she suspected that she would have been out on her ear long ago. It puzzled her that so many of the people she worked with did not appreciate her talents. She had an idea that her colleagues at the
New Gazette
thought she was Weaver’s mistress. If that was what they wanted to believe, there was no point in trying to correct the impression. Denials of that sort, she knew, cost nothing and were worth nothing. However, she was inclined to think it was simple jealousy, or merely a general dislike of women in any sort of authority, which ensured that most of the men she worked with would wear a smile to her face but abuse her behind her back. She wondered if there would ever be a woman prime minister.
While she was in the office, she spoke to an elderly man called Fred Wells who had always seemed to like her in a fatherly way. She had respect for him and maybe that showed. He was the nearest thing the
Daily Worker
had to an archivist and librarian and she asked him on a whim if he had anything on Montillo. He did not but, when she mentioned Simon Castlewood, his face lit up. A few minutes later, he put on her desk a large brown file full of press cuttings. More importantly, it contained a useful brief biography. Fred explained that he kept a file on most people of any standing in case something blew up and copy was needed in a hurry.
‘Not just Party members and supporters?’ she asked, surprised.
‘No, of course not. Enemies of the Party too. We have to know the enemy. You must have learned that, lass.’ Verity allowed him liberties she would never have allowed Edward which included being treated as a little girl and referred to as ‘lass’ rather than ‘comrade’.
Thanks, Fred. I’ll just run through the file and give it back to you before I leave the office.’
‘That’s my girl, but remember, nothing is to be taken out of the building or I’ll have your guts for garters.’
‘No, no, Fred. I’ll make a few notes. That’s all.’
Half an hour later she returned the file to Fred and thanked him.
‘It was useful?’
‘Very useful. I am most grateful.’
‘Well, don’t get too involved with that lot,’ he warned her. ‘They may be charming on the outside but they’ll cut you to pieces soon as look at you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I stayed with them – the Castlewoods. Lady Castlewood and I were at school together.’
Fred shook his head in disbelief. ‘Fraternizing with the enemy! No wonder Mr Block says you’re not to be trusted. He says you’re bourgeois through and through and in the end you’ll lie on the softest bed.’
Verity was at a loss for words. She had suffered so much for the cause and risked death often enough in Spain, only to be told that she was an enemy of the people. She would have burst into tears except that she had long ago vowed never to cry at mere words, however hurtful and particularly when they reflected on her competence. It was just what men expected you to do – dissolve into floods of tears so they could patronize you.
Fred had not meant to be unkind but, seeing her face, realized he had been indiscreet. ‘But we all think you are a star,’ he added. ‘Your stories are the only ones anyone reads and that makes people jealous. Don’t take any notice of them. You’re the sort of person who will always arouse strong feelings. You go on and do what you think is right and don’t worry about what they think. Let Morris grind his teeth. He needs you more than you need him.’
‘Thank you, Fred,’ she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I shall certainly do that.’
As she walked down Cayton Street into City Road, she thought about what she had learned. Castlewood was a puzzling fellow. His father had been an out and out crook who had made a fortune during the war supplying the army with sub-standard equipment at outrageous prices. The
Daily Worker
had not existed then but Fred, or someone else in the office, had put together a brief account of his exploitation of the workers and the Government’s need to find uniforms, helmets and other vital equipment at whatever cost. It made unpleasant reading. His son had taken a different line. He supported numerous charities, including a major London orphanage, and was top of anyone’s list of philanthropists to be approached when a new charity was being set up. He had also sponsored scientific expeditions to the Poles, as Verity already knew, and other exciting ventures including Amelia Earhart’s – it now appeared, ill-fated – attempt to fly round the world. In addition, he had set up an organization to help Jews leave Germany and come to Britain.
It was an impressive record but, set against that, he was known to have links with the Nazis and to have dined at the German Embassy in London on several occasions. The Anglo-German Fellowship had sprung out of the discredited Anglo-German Association which had been openly anti-Semitic. Sir Simon, Lord Londonderry and General Sir Ian Hamilton were just a few of the great and the good who were active members. He espoused ideas on eugenics which were beginning to look less and less reputable and seemed to support the Nazis’ policies of racial purity. He was a womanizer – notes on several of his mistresses were helpfully included – and his Foundation – an organization through which his money was funnelled to his various charities – seemed to have so many clients that even Fred Wells admitted to being unable to list them all.
Verity could have added one: Dominic Montillo’s Institute of Beauty. Adam had offered to help her investigation and she thought she might ask him if he could find anyone in the German Embassy who had access to a file on Montillo or Sir Simon and would be prepared to let him look at it. It might be possible to pin down Sir Simon’s specific contacts in the Nazi Party in London and Berlin. But where was this leading? It was Edward and Winston Churchill who wanted to discover whether the Castlewood Foundation was funding some unpleasant experiments at the behest of the Nazis. Her priority was to discover who murdered Maud. She wondered if she could find out more about Professor Pitt-Messanger. From all accounts he had been an awkward man given to quarrels and disputes. Perhaps Edward could ask Chief Inspector Pride if he had found out anything interesting.
She sighed. It was still glorious weather and the thought of leaving London for Vienna and then perhaps Prague – even though Adam would be with her – suddenly seemed less appealing. In Vienna, she would be living among people who not only tolerated the Nazis but, according to Adam, would shortly welcome becoming part of a greater German Reich. As a foreign correspondent and a known Communist, she might be attacked or even murdered. She wondered if she should, after all, tell Joe Weaver that she could not go.
It was strangely comforting – though it ought to have been embarrassing – to be meeting Edward for lunch. There
had
to be something special about their relationship if she was able to lunch with him so soon after informing him that she was going off with another man. But then, she had to admit, Edward wasn’t any ordinary man. Edward had suggested, to cheer themselves up, they eat at the café on the roof of Derry and Toms, the Kensington department store. It had only just been completed and was the work of Ralph Hancock, the landscape artist whom Edward had met once or twice at Mersham where he had supervised some improvements to the Knot Garden.
A hundred feet above street level with fine views over west London, the roof garden extended for a remarkable one and a half acres and consisted of three distinct gardens – the Spanish, Tudor and English Woodland complete with a stream upon which ducks floated, serenely unaware of the bizarre nature of their habitat. Edward was already there when she arrived. His good manners could be relied upon, she thought, smiling. He would never allow a lady to wait alone for even five minutes. He rose to greet her and Verity was again aware that, whatever his disappointment or even justified resentment, he never let it show. They walked peacefully around the garden, talking about nothing very much, and Verity felt calm and content – as she almost always was in his company.
At last, sipping ginger beer – ‘I’ve not had ginger beer since I was a boy. I had quite forgotten how good it is on a hot day’ – and nibbling potted meat sandwiches, they got down to business.
‘I’ve talked to both Pride and Jebb on the telephone and neither seems very much further forward. Apparently, I would guess against Jebb’s wishes, Pride has been put in charge of both investigations since they are so obviously linked.’