Sweet Sorrow (21 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do I have to spell it out?’ He saw from Edward’s face that he did. ‘All right, she was a lesbian – or rather she liked sex wherever she could get it.’

‘Good heavens! I would never have suspected . . .’

‘I don’t know why you are so surprised. Like most men, you assume lesbians all dress as men and stride about in riding boots like . . .’

‘Like?’

‘Like Miss Fairweather, of course. Why did you think I was in Sussex? I was fossicking around to find out if the affair was still going on. I was intrigued to discover that Gates and Fairweather both lived in the same village.’

‘You’re telling me that Frieda and Elsa Fairweather were lovers?’ Edward was taken aback. The thought had never crossed his mind that Frieda had known Miss Fairweather. ‘But how could they be?’ he objected. ‘As far as I know, Frieda never came down to Rodmell.’

‘I don’t think she did. She must have suspected there would be ructions if she showed up there. Even a girl like Frieda wouldn’t have wanted her lovers squabbling over her. She worked at the BBC, remember? There are plenty of that kind – male and female – in Broadcasting House but, as long as nothing is done in public to scare the horses, if you understand what I mean . . .’

Edward did. ‘I see. And does Miss Fairweather know about Byron and Frieda?’

‘I don’t know about that. You’ll have to ask her yourself. But I do know that she went to London to visit her publisher in Bedford Square on the day Frieda was killed. It’s only a ten-minute bus ride from there to Portland Place.’

‘And you think . . .’

‘I’m not accusing her of anything, but she might have been trying to tempt Frieda back and Frieda might have rejected her advances. It’s just a theory.’

‘It certainly is. Well, thank you, Ken. I owe you.’

‘I know you do,’ Ken said with a grin.

Before his meeting with Lewis Cathcart, Edward had taken the precaution of telephoning Reg Barnes to find out more about him. Reg had laughingly described him as a Scot on the make. He had been assistant editor of the
Scottish Bookman
in which he had published some of his own poems and was one of the first to recognize Dylan Thomas’s talent. They had met when Thomas came up to Edinburgh and Cathcart had bought a poem off him for the princely sum of two pounds. The two men had taken to each other, perhaps because they were both Celts and felt excluded from London’s Grub Street. They shared a liking for pubs, the shabbier the better, and, when Cathcart came to London, they had become drinking partners.

The shoe was now on the other foot and Thomas had found Cathcart freelance work which kept him in funds while he looked for an editorial position with a newspaper or publishing house. Thomas had introduced him to some BBC chums and that was where Barnes had come across him.

‘Cathcart wrote quite a good play I used – I think Thomas must have had a hand in it because it had his rather whimsical humour – and he’s done several other things for me. Of course, he’s not as talented as Thomas. If only Dylan didn’t drink so much he’d be one of our leading writers, but perhaps he’s one of those unfortunate people who can’t write without the drink. He’s damned lazy, too. I’ve got to know him quite well and I like him but I wouldn’t trust him an inch. He has charm but he is quite unscrupulous when it comes to money. He’ll try and touch you for a pound or two, I guarantee it!’

Barnes had gone on to say that, when Cathcart first arrived in London, he had shared a flat in Hammersmith with another Scottish poet and was soon friends with W.H. Auden, Stephen Spender, Robert Graves and Byron Gates. In fact, it was Barnes who had introduced Frieda to Cathcart and they had quickly become lovers. Frieda liked older men, he explained.

‘Frieda thought Cathcart could introduce her to “people that mattered” but it wasn’t long before she realized that he wasn’t quite the influential poet and editor she believed him to be because of the company he kept. It was inevitable that she turned her attention to Byron. She would have preferred Auden but quickly discovered that he wasn’t interested in women.’

‘So could the spurned lover have murdered the girl he still loved?’ Edward asked.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Barnes opined. ‘Cathcart was jealous all right, and in his cups swore to have his revenge on Byron, but I think it was all talk.’

Lewis Cathcart was not quite what Edward had expected, despite Verity’s description of him. He was about forty-five, thin and pasty-faced, with the haggard look of a man who drank too much and could only be bothered to shave every other day. He was sitting at the bar with a cherubic-looking man of about the same age who, Edward guessed, must be Dylan Thomas.

‘Lord Edward!’ Cathcart said in mock surprise. ‘I never thought you’d find this place.’

They had arranged to meet at the Mitre, a rather squalid pub off Fleet Street. The last thing Edward wanted was another drink but he knew he must make an effort to look as though he was at home in pubs and insisted on standing a round. Dylan – which Cathcart pronounced Dullen – looked at him over the foam on his pint with sharp, twinkling eyes and Edward could not help smiling in response. He was like a naughty boy – a plump cherub, Barnes had called him – whom you could not be cross with for long. Cathcart, on the other hand, was surly, his bad temper inadequately disguised behind a thin veil of bonhomie. Here was a man, Edward thought, who could wield a knife if he had to, whatever Reg Barnes might say to the contrary.

‘You know,’ Thomas said, ‘Caitlin – that’s my long-suffering wife, Lord Edward – says her mother brought her up to marry a duke. I really must introduce you.’

‘I would be a great disappointment,’ Edward replied. ‘In the first place, the younger son of a duke is worse than useless. His title is empty and, very often, his pockets too. In the second place, I have recently got married.’

Thomas looked at Edward’s perfectly cut Savile Row suit and crisp Jermyn Street shirt. ‘I hope you aren’t really broke because – as I was just saying to Cathcart – I am more than usually hard up and was hoping to persuade you to lend me a fiver.’

The pub was beginning to fill up but they found a small table in a corner where they perched uncomfortably on hard wooden benches. Cathcart must have seen Edward’s look of distaste at the table puddled with beer because he made what might have been an apology.

‘I can’t think why we come to this place, Dylan. It’s dirty and uncomfortable and stinks of cigarettes and faeces.’

‘That’s why we like it. We’d feel out of place somewhere posher. We’re not
respectable
, thank God. Tell me, Lord Edward,’ there was something mocking in the way Thomas drew out his title that made Edward wince, ‘why did you seek us out here in our sordid hideaway? I have heard you are an amateur sleuth. Would I be right in thinking you’ve come to accuse Cathcart of Frieda’s murder? Now, if you were to ask me whether my friend here could have killed Byron Gates, I’d have to say it was more than likely – we’ve all wanted to kill Byron at one moment or another – but not Frieda. Frieda was a bitch and she treated Lewis like shit but he loved her. He still loves her and he could never have hurt a hair on her head. Isn’t that right, my dear?’

It was a mannerism of Thomas’s to call his friends ‘my dear ’. Edward didn’t like it and nor did he care for his language. It was both flowery and filthy which was not a combination he found attractive.

‘Cathcart, I gather you were there – in Broadcasting House – when Frieda was murdered? My wife said you rushed in when you heard the news,’ Edward inquired.

‘Yes, I had a meeting with a producer in an office on the third floor. As soon as I heard the sound of pounding feet I sensed something terrible had happened. I rushed out and followed the crowd. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Frieda. I loved her – whatever you choose to believe – and to see her lying there with her head smashed in . . . I can’t bear to think about it even now.’

‘Have you any idea who might have done it?’

‘Well, Gates is dead otherwise I might have said him. Frieda could be terribly annoying. They might have had a row but . . .’

‘Did she love Byron, do you think?’

‘Not really. She was a selfish cow,’ Cathcart said bitterly. ‘She wanted to “get on”. That’s why she attached herself to me originally. I fooled myself into thinking she loved me but I soon saw my mistake. She thought – wrongly, as it turned out – that I was a “coming man”. I helped her to meet people – people like Byron – and she dumped me when she’d squeezed everything out of me she could. She would have dumped Byron too if she’d met some film producer or the DG or the Prime Minister. I loved the little bitch, as I told you, but I didn’t like her.’

Edward was rather shocked at Cathcart’s language but tried not to show it. ‘So you have no idea who might have killed her?’

‘An ex-lover . . . perhaps that lesbian writer – what’s her name? Elsa Fairweather. She was pretty cut up when Frieda threw her over. You know about that?’

‘I had heard,’ Edward admitted guardedly. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Not that I can think of but . . .’

‘You know Mark Redel, I believe? Was he in Broadcasting House at the time of the murder?’

Cathcart looked at his friend. ‘I didn’t see him. Do you know whether he was, Dylan?’

‘Not I, but Mark and she were lovers years ago when we were all young, though he always denied it. She modelled for him and don’t painters always sleep with their models?’

‘Were you aware that Mark had tried to kill himself?’ Edward asked brutally.

‘No, I wasn’t!’ Thomas looked genuinely shocked. ‘Lewis, did you know?’

‘Not me.’ Cathcart seemed uninterested.

‘You say he
tried
to kill himself. I take it then that he’s all right? He didn’t succeed?’ Thomas asked, showing what Edward thought was real concern.

‘It was a close-run thing. So you don’t think he was in Broadcasting House when Frieda was murdered?’

‘Not as far as I am aware,’ Cathcart answered.

‘You see, he was in London visiting his gallery,’ Edward explained.

‘Was he? I wonder why he didn’t let me know?’ Thomas murmured. ‘We were very close at one time but I’m not very good at keeping up with my friends.’ He sighed and once again, Edward thought, donned his armour of quiet amusement and world-weary cynicism.

‘Whoever killed Frieda must have known their way round Broadcasting House,’ Edward remarked.

‘That’s true. Dylan, you’re quite sure it wasn’t you?’ Cathcart smiled wryly.

‘I really don’t think I could do murder,’ his friend mused. ‘But what about that vicar fellow – the one who was doing the Daily Service the week she was killed?’

‘Paul Fisher? Why on earth would he want to kill Frieda?’

‘I’ve no idea but I saw him look at her once in the canteen. It was a combination of lust and loathing.’

‘But vicars don’t murder people except in books, do they?’ Cathcart asked. ‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you, old boy. What with the war coming any day now, I suppose the police have got better things to do than find Frieda’s murderer. I notice the investigation hardly makes page six in the
News Chronicle
.’

‘That may change,’ Edward replied.

‘Golly, gosh,’ Thomas mocked. ‘Is the amateur sleuth going to reveal all and make the police look like fools? I do hope so.’

Edward got up to go. ‘No, I’m afraid there’s very rarely that sort of denouement in real life – or do I mean real death? In my experience, most murders – other than husbands killing their wives and vice versa – are rather too messy and complicated to be “solved” in that way. But I will find out who killed Frieda – that I promise you. One last question, Cathcart. Did you receive a poison pen letter? I ask because the murderer appears to send them out before he sets about killing the recipient. Mark Redel received one and it almost killed him.’

Cathcart visibly blanched. ‘No, I’ve not received a poison pen letter. Why should I?’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Edward replied. ‘I thought it unlikely but I wanted to be sure.’

‘Before you go,’ Thomas said in a comical whine, ‘you couldn’t lend me a fiver, could you? I have to get back to my wife and son in Wales tonight and I seem to be stony-broke.’

Edward took out his wallet and parted with a banknote.

‘Why, thank you! You’re a gent – but then of course you are. You’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you once gave that great poet Dylan Thomas a sub. Now that’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it?’

Edward had one final call to make in London. Guy Liddell had grudgingly agreed that he could talk to Colonel Rathbone, MI5’s man at the BBC. ‘But you won’t get anything out of him,’ he had added, sounding pleased.

Before mentioning his appointment with Colonel Rathbone, Edward asked the commissionaire at the front desk to put through a call to ‘Talks’. When he had spoken to Reg Barnes the day before, he had asked whether he might have five minutes with him while he was at Broadcasting House to clear up a few points he didn’t want to discuss on the telephone.

Barnes looked with interest at the tall, distinguished-looking man with a beaked nose and an air of authority as Edward strode into his office. He had met men like him before. They came into the BBC to give talks on the Arab Revolt or the ascent of Everest – army officers or empire-makers for the most part who were more at home in a Damascus souk or a Kathmandu bazaar than in Portland Place.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Barnes . . .’

‘Call me Reg, please. Everyone does.’

‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you to see me. I can guess how busy you are, and you were very helpful on the phone. I thought you might like to hear how my meeting with Lewis Cathcart went.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘He was just as you described him and, as you prophesied, his friend Thomas “borrowed” a five-pound note off me. But I wonder if I could just ask you a few questions about Frieda’s murder which I didn’t want to ask on the phone? I’m sure the police have gone through it all with you until you’re sick to death of talking about it but you can understand how, with my wife’s involvement, I very much want to get to the heart of the matter.’