The More Deceived (17 page)

‘Despite that.’

‘But his views on India – do you subscribe to those? Do you think it can remain part of the British Empire for very much longer?’

‘I do so. If the British wash their hands of the subcontinent, there will be years – decades perhaps – of religious war.’

‘As it happens,’ Edward said casually, ‘I went to lunch with Mr Churchill at Chartwell just a few days ago. It was the first time I had met him and I confess to having come away believing as you do.’

His guest looked at him with interest. ‘May I ask, Lord Edward, why you were there? I presume it was not just a social visit?’

Edward hesitated and then thought he would risk the truth. ‘No. I was asking him how he came to have such accurate information about our rearmament programme and how he justified using such information to spread alarm about our weakness. I tell you this in confidence.’

Sir Vida thought for a moment. ‘You are not a journalist so I can only suppose that you are a government official. You know, perhaps, that I am one of Mr Churchill’s warmest admirers. I think what he is doing is patriotic and in no way harmful to the national interest.’

‘That became my view after I had talked to him,’ Edward said cheerfully.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Does this mean our meeting this morning was planned?’

‘Not at all. An accident, I promise you, but – to tell the truth – I did hope to meet you sooner rather than later.’

‘Well, Lord Edward, I would recommend you put your questions to me now because this may be your last opportunity.’

‘I hope not,’ Edward said as smoothly as he could. ‘I merely wanted to ask if you knew anything about the murder of a man called Charles Westmacott?’

‘Westmacott? I have never heard the name.’

‘He was a Foreign Office official. In fact, he worked in a department which took an interest in arms and arms dealers. He was found hanging from Chelsea Bridge.’

‘Ah! That man! I read about the murder in the newspapers. No, I don’t know anything about it. Why should I? Are you accusing me of killing a man I have never met?’

‘I am not accusing you of anything. As a friend of Mr Churchill’s, I thought you might know if he was one of his “sources”.’

‘Why ask me that? Presumably you asked Churchill himself.’

‘I did. He was evasive.’

‘I cannot help you, Lord Edward. Much as I admire Mr Churchill, I am not party to his political activities. I support his campaign to build up our military strength but I have no way of helping him with information.’

‘Forgive me if I am being intrusive but surely you buy and sell armaments? Does that not put you in a good position to . . . ?’

‘My business is my own affair,’ Sir Vida said shortly. ‘It has no bearing on my politics or Mr Churchill’s – or anyone else’s for that matter. Now, I think it is time I left. My chauffeur will think I have been kidnapped. It was good of you to let me see these rooms. I envy you them.’

‘It was no trouble.’ Edward silently cursed himself. He felt he had been clumsy and wasted an opportunity but tried not to show it. ‘You live in London, Sir Vida?’ he asked, helping him on with his coat.

‘And Paris and New York. My business takes me round the world but, yes, I have a house in London – Chester Square – although I hardly ever use it. I prefer staying at Claridge’s. I have a suite there.’

Edward assumed he meant a permanent suite and was impressed. ‘You have been most patient. I apologize for buttonholing you like this. I had an idea you might have been able to throw some light on what is a very unpleasant business but I see I was wrong.’

‘I hope you aren’t too disappointed.’

As he saw him out, Edward said, ‘I am surprised a man in your position is not accompanied by bodyguards. You must have made enemies.’

Sir Vida’s eyes flashed. ‘This is London, Lord Edward, not Addis Ababa. Goodbye and good luck with your investigation though I am still not clear exactly what you are investigating and by what authority.’

Edward went back into his rooms and thought about what he had learnt. Had he said too much? Had he asked the right questions? Perhaps he would have done better not to have shown his hand but wormed his way into the man’s confidence. But he knew he would not have been able to play the hypocrite so thoroughly. And, as Sir Vida had said, he was not in any one place for any length of time. If he had not asked his questions when he did, he might never have had another opportunity. What had he learnt? Little enough: that Sir Vida owned a house in Chester Square. If it was the one in which Guy and David Griffiths-Jones were living, what did that prove? Nothing, but it was . . . interesting.

Weary after his jousting with Chandra, he decided to spend an hour or two at the hammam in Jermyn Street. He then spent a pleasant evening at Brooks’s trying to forget he was a policeman. He returned to Albany about eleven and was relieved to find no urgent messages from Major Ferguson or anyone else. He went to bed and slept soundly, only to be woken by the sound of the telephone ringing. He heard Fenton go to answer it. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It showed seven o’clock. A telephone call this early could only mean bad news. Without waiting for Fenton to summon him, he slid out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown and slippers and went into the hall.

‘Who is it, Fenton?’

‘Major Ferguson, my lord.’

He grabbed the receiver and barked, ‘What is it, Ferguson? Bad news?’

‘I am afraid so, my lord. I thought you would want to know straight away. Desmond Lyall has been found dead in his office. It looks as though he was poisoned though as yet we don’t know how.’

‘Good heavens! Lyall dead? Poisoned? How? When?’

‘Yesterday evening. Someone left some poisoned cigarettes in the box he kept on his desk.’

‘Poisoned cigarettes?’

‘Yes. Lyall was a chain smoker which ought to have made him more resistant to it but . . .’

A thought occurred to Edward. ‘His son, James, was going to see him. Do you know if he managed to do so before . . . ?’

‘Yes, he did. It was just a few hours later that his father died.’

‘Where is James now? Do you know?’

‘Pride’s going to Chester Square in about an hour, as soon as he has finished at the Foreign Office. I thought you might like to be there.’

‘Right. By the way, about the house – I have a hunch it belongs to Sir Vida Chandra.’

‘Chandra! That needs thinking about. I’ll get Pride on to it straight away.’

‘James . . . I blame myself for suggesting he go and see his father. Do you think . . . ?’

‘No one is saying James killed his father but he was, possibly, the last person to see him alive. The poisoned cigarettes could have been left at any time. It was a sort of Russian roulette. Lyall may have smoked several ordinary cigarettes before he pulled out a lethal one. As for sending James to see his father – you cannot blame yourself for that. Assuming he had nothing to do with his father’s death, he may sleep easier for having had that last meeting. Perhaps they parted on good terms. We have to hope so.’

‘No one witnessed the meeting, I suppose?’

‘No. The secretary saw James into his father’s office but was absent when he left. Sometime later she found him dead.’

‘Miss Hawkins?’

‘Yes. Look, I have to be somewhere in five minutes – the Foreign Secretary wants a briefing and then I have to see Vansittart. I’ll catch up with you later.’

Edward put down the receiver and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture which Verity, had she been there, would have recognized as indicating he was under stress.

The death of two fathers, he thought to himself. There might be many other things Lyall and Westmacott had in common but both had children who would suffer from their deaths.

‘Fenton, bring round the Lagonda, will you. I am going out. Ferguson says Desmond Lyall has been murdered.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that, my lord. I will bring the car round directly. Might I inquire if you think Mr James Lyall killed his father?’

‘I do not, Fenton, but you can bet your bottom dollar that Chief Inspector Pride will think he did.’

Pride arrived at the house in Chester Square to find Edward gazing up at the shuttered windows. ‘I have been knocking and ringing the bell but there is no answer,’ he commented.

Pride nodded. ‘The birds have flown? The boy must have known we would come looking for him here. However, I have applied for a search warrant. We may still find something.’

‘It’s all probably quite innocent, Chief Inspector. Guy Baron and David Griffiths-Jones were planning to go back to Spain and they have probably taken James with them. You know he joined the International Brigade?’

‘So you told me. They’re all Communists, I understand?’ he said with barely concealed contempt.

‘Yes, Chief Inspector, and I have a hunch the house is owned by Sir Vida Chandra, the arms dealer. I have asked Ferguson to check if I am right.’

‘I’ve heard of him. An Indian gentleman, as I believe, with too much money to be honest.’

‘Really, Pride, you do jump to conclusions.’

The Chief Inspector snorted derisively.

Back in his office the Chief Inspector finished telling Edward about Desmond Lyall’s death. ‘James spent an hour with his father and left about five. Miss Hawkins put her head round his door at six to say she was going home and found him lying across his desk.’

‘He was still in his chair?’

‘Yes. Miss Hawkins thought he had had a heart attack while he was working. She’s a most sensible woman. Instead of panicking, she tried to revive him but, when it was clear he was dead, she called an ambulance and Mr McCloud – he was just leaving when he heard her cry out – telephoned the police. The call was put through to me.’

‘What made him call the police? I mean, Miss Hawkins thought Lyall had died of a heart attack.’

‘McCloud said he “did not look right”.’

‘What did that mean?’

‘He could not quite say but it seems to have been the chrysanthemum.’

‘The chrysanthemum?’

‘It was dead and broken in half. McCloud found it underneath the cigarette box on the desk.’

‘But this is April. There are no chrysanthemums in April.’

‘That’s right, my lord. As McCloud knew, they bloom from September to December. There’s quite a folklore surrounding chrysanthemums, so I am informed. They can stand for life or rest but a dead, broken flower signifies death.’

‘That’s fantastic! Are you suggesting someone’s sending us messages . . . ?’

Pride shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. The man is dead, that’s for sure.’

‘Can you tell me about how he died?’

‘It looks like nicotine poisoning.’

‘Good heavens! I’m afraid I have never heard of it. How is it administered?’

‘It can be drunk or, as in this case, inhaled. Lyall smoked a Turkish brand – Murad – and one of the cigarettes seemed to have been laced with the poison. Probably more than one – they are all being tested. Anyway, the cigarette which killed him was still between his fingers so death must have been almost instantaneous. A lethal dose is about fifty milligrams and death is almost immediate.’

‘But the cigarettes – the poisoned ones – could have been left in the box on his desk at any time. I remember him offering me one.’

‘Did you smoke it?’ Pride asked mildly.

‘I did not.’

‘If the murderer poisoned only one of the cigarettes then it could have taken days before he reached it but, if there were several, they must have been left in the box very soon before he died. He got through as many as forty a day, Miss Hawkins says. She often told him they were bad for him.’

‘But not this bad! What are the symptoms? I mean, is nicotine poisoning a painful death?’

‘The doctor says the diaphragm muscles are paralysed and death occurs from respiratory failure. In other words, you die of asphyxiation.’

‘How horrible!’ Edward said, automatically taking a deep breath. ‘And it works fast?’

‘As fast as cyanide.’

Edward rubbed his forehead. ‘This must have been done by someone close to him. There must be a personal motive. He wasn’t a sociable man so we ought to be able to narrow down the list of suspects. Could he have brought the poisoned cigarettes into the office himself?’

‘Just possibly. He normally bought several boxes every week or two from the tobacconist over the road. We’ve talked to the man who served him – it’s a most respectable shop, I should add – and he had not been in for ten days. They were expecting a visit from him.’

‘You do believe the deaths of Westmacott and Lyall are connected, Chief Inspector?’

‘I do but, as I am sure you would agree, my lord, the two murders are very different. Westmacott’s was clearly the work of an organized group. It has all the signs of a gangland killing but so far none of my people – narks, snouts, that’s what we call them – have got a sniff of who might be behind it. Which suggests to me that it’s political.’

‘Agreed. While Lyall’s murder . . .’

‘Is personal.’

‘Although you could say that both men were asphyxiated. Have you had a chance to talk to his friends? I don’t even know where he lived.’

‘He had a service flat in a block near Portland Place. We have had a look round it but there’s nothing there. Hardly any personal belongings – a portrait of his wife by Lavery – that’s about it.’

‘But was that where he had always lived?’

‘No. His wife was a rich woman. They had a house in Cadogan Gardens and a country place near Oxford – Steeple Aston. After she died, he sold everything and went into a shell from all accounts. Never saw anyone or did anything. When his wife was alive they used to do the season. They were keen on racing and Sir Robert said he met him at Ascot one year. He even owned a racehorse, he was telling me. But Lyall was hard hit by his wife’s death and when James joined the International Brigade . . . well, it was the last straw.’

‘But Vansittart thought well of him?’

‘Oh yes. He worked harder than ever after his wife died. Sir Robert said his work was exemplary, except perhaps he was too unsociable. His staff respected him but never “knew” him. He wasn’t the sort of man to interest himself in their private lives.’