The Quality of Mercy (29 page)

Harry brightened. ‘Would you, sir?’

‘You should have asked my permission – but we’ll say no more about that. So what happened? Where did you go?’

‘I rode right up the drive and round the back of the house and through the stables . . .’

‘It didn’t occur to you that you might frighten the horses?’

‘I thought they were all up at the polo ground.’

‘You didn’t see anyone near the stables, I suppose?’ Edward asked.

‘No, sir. I had no idea Mr Dreiser was there. Of course, when I heard what had happened, I realized it must have been me who frightened Button.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Mountbatten demanded.

Harry hung his head. ‘I knew I ought to have done, sir. I
meant
to but . . . I was a coward. I thought I might go to prison. I didn’t want to shame my father.’

‘Now look here, Harry,’ Mountbatten said, not unkindly, ‘we all make mistakes. We all do things we don’t mean to and find our actions sometimes have unforeseen and unpleasant consequences.’ He coughed as though he had just thought of some of these. ‘The only thing that matters is that we face up to them. You ought to have come to your father or to me and told us what had happened. In the long run, as you have now found out, it is much worse when you don’t speak up frankly, like a man.’

‘I know, sir. I am very sorry. It has been weighing me down. I wanted to tell someone but then it was all too late and I couldn’t. I’m not a murderer, am I?’

‘Come here, Harry,’ Sunny said. ‘Lord Louis is quite correct and I expect any son of mine to behave like an English gentleman and a future ruler of Batiala, but no, you are not a murderer. Isn’t that right, Edward?’

‘Certainly, but it would have saved us all a great deal of worry if you had told us what you had been up to. Miss Browne and I felt particular responsibility for Mr Dreiser because, as you are aware, Harry, we were instrumental in bringing him over to England from Vienna. You know why we did that?’

‘Because the Nazis are putting the Jews into prison camps?’

‘That’s right. We thought – and I know you will agree – that those of us who are fortunate not to be persecuted for our race or religion ought to help those who are.’

Verity thought he sounded rather pompous but forgave him.

‘Yes, sir.’ Harry hung his head.

‘Now, what I would like to suggest, if your father agrees – and this is not a punishment – is that you help us with the next trainload of children to arrive from Berlin or Vienna.’

‘I would like that, sir,’ Harry said, his eyes shining. ‘And, what’s more, I could get some of my friends from school to help.’

‘That would be an excellent idea!’ Mountbatten agreed.

‘I’ll talk to the headmaster,’ Sunny said.

‘Will I go to prison?’ Harry said, once again a worried small boy.

‘No, indeed,’ Edward said. ‘I don’t think there is any need to tell Inspector Beeston, do you, sir?’ He looked across at Mountbatten.

‘No. I don’t see what good it would do. Beeston thinks Dreiser’s death was an accident – which it was. It will only confuse matters if we explain how the accident came about. In fact, I suggest that all of us keep absolutely quiet about Harry’s misdemeanour. He has learnt a lesson – that’s the important thing. Telling the world about it won’t bring Dreiser back to life. I don’t think we even need tell Frank and Sunita. It’s over and done with.’

13

‘And it would have embarrassed Mountbatten,’ Verity said wryly as they discussed on their way back to Mersham why there had been no proper police investigation into Gray’s death. ‘Talk of unforeseen consequences! If he hadn’t decided to convert that farmhouse into houses for estate workers, Gray might still be alive.’

‘You can’t blame Mountbatten for that, V.’

‘I don’t, but there is an irony there. We have looked into two strange deaths and found that both of them were – if not accidents – certainly the unintended results of someone’s actions.’

‘So what?’ Edward said dismissively. ‘We can’t ever know what the future holds. When Georg introduced himself to you at that ridiculous
thé dansant
in Vienna, who could have said where it would lead?’

‘And if you hadn’t persuaded Joan to get her child out of Vienna on that train, she might still be alive today,’ Verity said, stung into responding. Edward’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ she added, immediately contrite.

‘No, I deserved it.’

‘How long do you think Joan will be in prison?’

‘I don’t know. The Swiss authorities were surprisingly understanding. I’m going back for the trial, of course. I think she wants to be punished, but it was, once again, an accident.’

‘She meant to kill Mandl. I think you are too lenient.’

‘Perhaps I am. As I get older, I find I am less and less willing to condemn. The one thing she didn’t mean to do was to harm her child. Think what she is suffering. How did Wilde put it? “Yet each man kills the thing he loves.”’

‘Unintended consequences . . .’ Verity said thoughtfully.

‘The war will bring plenty of those – if we can ever nerve ourselves to fight. I keep thinking that even this spineless lot of halfwits who pretend to govern us can’t humiliate themselves further but they always find some excuse to retreat and surrender.’

‘Well, if Hitler takes the Sudetenland, even Chamberlain will have to do something.’

‘I wish I thought you were right, V.’ Edward was silent for a moment and then took a deep breath. ‘You said that, when we had cleared up the mystery surrounding Georg’s death, I could ask you to marry me.’

‘Did I?’ Verity sounded surprised.

‘Yes, you did. Don’t pretend you don’t remember. I’m going to ask you one last time. If you refuse me I’ll know you mean it and I promise not to bother you again.’

Verity looked startled and opened her mouth to protest – to delay the inevitable – but Edward gave her no time. He knelt in the muddy grass, ignoring the fact that he was ruining a perfectly good pair of Harris tweed trousers.

‘Verity – darling – will you marry me? I promise I won’t expect you to change. You can be as bloody-minded as you like, run halfway across the globe and get yourself into the most frightful jams and I won’t complain – or at least not much. I would prefer you not to take other lovers but even then . . .’

‘Edward!’ Verity sounded genuinely shocked. ‘If I married you, I certainly wouldn’t feel free to take lovers . . .’

‘However much you might want to?’ Edward completed her sentence.

‘No . . . yes . . . oh, please, get off your knees. You look absurd and you’re making me feel uncomfortable.’

‘Not as uncomfortable as I feel. But I’m not getting up until you give me an answer, drat it!’

The ‘drat it’ was precipitated by a trickle of water running down his leg into his sock.

‘Well . . .’

At that moment, Frank and Sunita hove into view. ‘I say, Uncle Ned, are you all right? Have you tripped or something?’

Sunita put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Edward struggled to his feet looking thoroughly put out. ‘Damn you, Frank, what do you want? Sorry, Sunita – you don’t mind me swearing at my nephew, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ she giggled. ‘I expect I shall be doing the same quite soon.’

‘What do you mean?’ Verity asked suspiciously.

‘The fact is,’ Frank said, unable to hold back the news a minute longer, ‘I have asked Sunita to marry me and she has agreed. Isn’t that wonderful? She is the best and most beautiful girl I have ever met and I love her to bits.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her.

‘Please, Frank, behave,’ Sunita protested, though not convincingly, Edward thought.

‘My dear boy . . .’ he exclaimed, his heart sinking at the thought of the ructions which were sure to follow this announcement. ‘That’s wonderful! Isn’t it, V? Have you told . . .?’

‘Wonderful!’ Verity echoed, reaching out to embrace them both.

‘Do you think my father will cut up rough, Uncle?’ Frank broke away, looking worried. ‘Sunita thinks he won’t allow it but I’ve told her he’ll be delighted. After all, he’s the most frightful snob and she is the daughter of a maharaja.’

‘And an old friend of mine,’ Edward reminded him. ‘Sunita, I’m delighted, truly. Frank’s a good boy but he’ll lead you the most frightful dance, I should imagine. But why are you telling me when you haven’t yet spoken to your parents, Frank? I mean I’m most flattered but . . .’

Frank grimaced. ‘Well, the thing is, as I say, the pater ought to be really pleased but . . .’

‘You want me to help you break it to him? Is that it? And what about your father, Sunita? Have you asked his permission to marry this ne’er-do-well? He might have objections.’

‘He’ll do whatever he thinks will make me happy.’ She smiled and Edward had no doubt that she was right.

‘Can we get it over with, Uncle?’ Frank suddenly looked like a worried little boy.

‘Oh, God! Now? I suppose I had better go with you. I won’t be a minute, V. At least I hope I not. Wait for me, will you? I must have an answer . . .’

‘Take as long as you need,’ she said, laughing. ‘I have to do some thinking anyway.’

‘I’ll stay with you, if I may,’ Sunita said. ‘You see, Frank,’ she explained, ‘if your father refuses his consent I don’t want to be humiliated by having to hear him say he doesn’t think me good enough.’

‘Of course you’re good enough!’ Frank expostulated. ‘What’s so special about the Dukes of Mersham? From what I’ve heard, the first one was little better than a pirate and at least two have had their heads chopped off.’

‘Yes, but that was centuries ago. They’ve all been frightfully respectable for ages.’

‘Well, if Pa does cut up rough, we’ll elope. He can cut me off without a shilling for all I care. I love you and that’s an end to it.’

Edward could not prevent himself trying to imagine Frank surviving on whatever he could earn or cadge from his uncle and shuddered. ‘I shouldn’t really say it but I rather doubt Gerald
could
cut you off – so much of Mersham is entailed.’

‘You mean you can’t
not
be a duke if you are born to it?’

‘Oh hell!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘This is worse than when I was at Eton nerving myself to dive into an icy river. Come on, let’s get it over with.’

The Duke looked at his son and Edward thought one hardly needed Freud to interpret the war of emotions reflected in his face. Connie, too, though she had anticipated this moment, was pale and not entirely at her ease.

‘Aren’t you a bit young to be getting married?’ Gerald managed eventually. ‘And, Ned, why have you got mud all over your trousers? Did you fall over?’

They were in the library. The Duke had been sleeping behind
The Times
and Connie was finishing some embroidery when Frank burst in, Edward in tow.

‘I thought you were urging me to get married the other day.’ Frank sounded aggrieved.

‘You really love this girl?’ Connie asked.

‘Mother! Don’t call her “this girl”. You are talking about my future wife.’

‘Sorry, darling. Sunita. I mean, you have thought you were in love before . . . that American girl on the
Queen Mary
. . .’

‘This is quite different. I can’t understand you both. Sunita is . . . she’s quite wonderful.’

‘She’s charming,’ Connie agreed quickly. ‘Has she talked to her parents about this . . . about this engagement?’

‘Not yet. We thought we’d tell you first.’

‘Well, I think both of you should talk to them.’

‘You do like Sunita?’ Frank asked anxiously.

‘We like her enormously and when we get to know her, I am sure we will love her. She’s a delightful girl.’ Connie was eager to reassure her son. If Sunita was to be her daughter-in-law, she must never be reproached for making disparaging remarks about her. ‘We only want to be sure
you
are sure.’

‘I’m quite sure!’ Frank said firmly and Edward felt proud of him. ‘She’s rich, if that’s what you are worrying about. And a maharaja is a sort of king – much higher in rank than a duke, you know.’

Edward, seeing that his brother was about to contest this remark, broke in. ‘Please, Frank, you know this isn’t about money or rank. It’s about your happiness. I’m right, am I not, Gerald?’

‘Quite right. What I would like to suggest is that you have a private engagement and if after . . .’ He thought about saying a year and then, knowing that this would not wash, changed his mind. ‘If, after six months, you are both still certain you want to get married, then let’s make it all official.’

‘I think that’s fair, Frank,’ Edward said and his brother looked at him gratefully.

‘There’s a war coming . . .’

‘I still think you should do what your father asks,’ Connie said. ‘During the last war there were so many quick weddings – shotgun weddings they were called – before the men went to the front and many of them did not last.’

‘Well,’ Frank said dubiously, ‘I suppose it’s all right. Shall I ask Sunita to come in so you can tell her?’

‘Of course!’ Connie responded faintly.

‘I’ll go!’ Edward decided it was time he retired. He had done his bit and now it was up to father and son to thrash it out between them.

He went back to Verity, relieved that things had gone as well as they had, and told Sunita she was to join Frank in the drawing-room.

‘It’s all right then?’ Sunita opened her eyes wide.

‘It’s all right but they’ll make you wait a few months before it’s official. I’ll let Frank tell you.’

‘You’re a darling, isn’t he, Verity?’ Sunita said, hugging and kissing him.

Edward went pink with pleasure. ‘Run along. You’re not marrying me but Frank’s a very lucky boy. I am quite sure he doesn’t deserve you.’

When she had gone to discover her fate, Verity said, ‘It’s such a lot of nonsense. What does it matter who Frank marries so long as he loves her? Why do they have to wait? The English aristocracy needs new blood so that, after the war, when it’s relieved of all its wealth and privileges, it can cope.’

‘That’s all very well, V, but being a duke . . .’

‘Fiddlesticks! If Gerald had cut up rough . . . well, I know Connie wouldn’t . . . but if Frank isn’t allowed to marry Sunita he’ll run off and marry someone quite unsuitable just for . . . not spite, but you know what I mean – on the rebound. Someone like that American woman who told us all about sex . . . the one who worked for Dr Kinsey.’