The More Deceived (33 page)

‘I’ve got Fenton, haven’t I? Go for God’s sake.’

Reaching the Vickers Armstrong factory, Edward was frustrated but also rather relieved to find it closed – not only closed but locked and barred. Perhaps because it was a Saturday or, more likely, because this was a day of celebration for Brooklands, no one was at work. He peered through a dirty window but could see nothing. He tried a couple of doors and found them secure. He was about to turn back to the track when he was challenged by an elderly man in overalls.

‘There ain’t no one here. It’s all shut up.’

‘Are you the caretaker?’

‘The janitor – caretaker – call me what you want. And I was told to keep an eye out for gentlemen as came snooping, d’y’see?’

‘I do see and I heartily approve. In times like these you can’t be too careful, eh?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ the man said sententiously, ‘but “no snooping, Bill” – that’s what the governor told me.’

‘Has there been “snooping”, then?’

‘I don’t think as how I should be talking about it, begging your pardon, sir.’

‘No, quite right. Well, Bill, I’ll be off. Oh, by the way, was the chap they caught snooping a man about my age, short, with sandy hair and a crooked nose?’

‘No. indeed, sir. He were a dark-haired young man . . . younger than you, sir. About your height, though.’

‘Ah, well, not the man I was thinking of then. Good day to you.’ He tipped his hat to Bill and went on with his walk.

He saw that Georgina’s race still had not started. One of the cars seemed to have broken down and blocked the track. He thought he might still have time to get back to Verity before the flag went down.

Verity was in a fever of excitement when he returned. ‘Guess who I saw?’

‘I have no idea but you’re going to tell me.’

‘Guy Baron. He’s here with André. I asked him why he was here, because he knows less about racing cars than I do, and he said it was “a good place to meet people”. After all, he hadn’t expected to meet me here and now he had. I really don’t know what he was getting at. Oh, and the odd thing was, he was quite sober.’

Edward bit his lip. There were just too many people at Brooklands who had no business being there and, as Verity pointed out, most of them knew next to nothing about cars. Was it possible that, after all, he had got it wrong and the murderer was . . . but no, he was
not
wrong. It was two strands getting entangled. If only he could straighten out who did what to whom. He needed to know one thing more.

He saw the starter and Percy Bradley running around the broken-down car, gesturing and shouting. He could not make out what was being said but it was clear that the race was still some minutes away from starting. He told Verity he wanted to place a bet on Georgina but would be back in a moment.

‘You’re so restless, Edward. It’s too late to make a bet. Sit down and relax.’

‘I will in just a moment,’ he said airily and slipped off to the Clerk of the Course’s office. A young woman to whom he introduced himself obligingly allowed him to use the office telephone. He had Sir Robert Vansittart’s telephone number – his direct line – but he was not there, it being a Saturday. With a finger in one ear to muffle the noise of roaring engines, he asked instead to speak to Mr Sanderson, the man who had dealt so efficiently with his diplomatic passport. This industrious minion was at his desk and Edward asked him to find out for him where and when a member of Desmond Lyall’s staff had been born. When Sanderson understood why this information was important, he obligingly said he would ring Edward back in an hour when he had made his inquiries. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece, he asked the young woman whether he might give the Foreign Office Mr Bradley’s telephone number to which she agreed, her eyes shining with excitement. This was clearly all much more thrilling than the racing.

He went back to Verity, having forgotten to put on his bet. She did not appear to have missed him and was once more surrounded by friends. Lord Weaver and his wife were sitting on either side of her. Guy Baron was lurking in the background talking to Adrian Hassel, and Alice and her mother were laughing with Charlotte. It was good to see Mrs Westmacott looking relaxed and happy.

Guy saw him and came up to him. ‘Such a good crowd here, Corinth. And dearest Verity’s being lionized, positively lionized. I so much envy you having been at Guernica. You saw history being made.’

Edward winced. ‘It wasn’t history I saw being made so much as the future. In the coming war I very much fear mass murder will become a commonplace. But don’t let’s talk about that now.’ He had no wish to discuss Guernica with a man whom he distrusted and whose friendship with David Griffiths-Jones tarnished him.

‘André’s photographs made a great impact,’ Baron continued to probe. ‘Alas! Poor Gerda. Did you ever sleep with her? Kavan thinks you did.’

Edward looked at Guy with disgust. He felt the anger bubble to the surface but restrained it with a great effort. ‘Where is Kavan?’

‘He’s taking photographs at the start. In fact, I think I’ll go and join him.’ He scurried off.

Adrian approached. ‘I say, I thought you were going to hit the man. What did he do to annoy you?’

‘He was attempting to make me lose my temper and, by jingo, he nearly succeeded. That’s all.’

Suddenly there was a shout from Weaver. ‘They’re off! Look, at last they’re off!’ As the starter’s flag fell, Adrian pulled Edward over to the rail and they watched the drivers rev their engines, desperate to be the first to get away. The growl of the motors was a sound he had never heard before and would never forget. He understood, really for the first time, what it was about the sport which hooked people. It was visceral and seemed to reverberate deep inside him, demanding a response over which he had no control. Momentarily, he forgot his anger and his concerns for Georgina’s safety in the thrill of the chase.

The Austin took off like a swift among crows. Kay Petre, he noticed, was less fortunate and had to be push-started. There were twelve machines in all. The drivers were impossible to distinguish in their overalls and leather helmets – some had goggles, others visors – but each car was clearly numbered, in Georgina’s case with a large white eight. By any reasonable reckoning, it had to be mad: these women driving at almost 100 mph in their fragile machines, with no straps to hold them in their seats, inadequate brakes, the cars always on the point of spinning out of control. But, as Edward watched, he saw that just because it
was
so unreasonable his heart beat faster and and his hands clutched the binoculars as though his life depended on them. The excitement of sheer, unadulterated speed gripped him so that it hurt.

The new Campbell Circuit was to be lapped anti-clockwise – each lap two and a quarter miles. The cars were to make twenty-five laps – a gruelling test for driver and car. They were to proceed down the Railway Straight, as they would have done before the Campbell Circuit was constructed, but make a sharpish left turn on to the new road. They then doubled back parallel to the Railway Straight, swung into the right-handed Aerodrome Curve and then into the Sahara Straight which ran parallel to the finishing straight. After a sharp left-hand bend at Vickers Bridge Corner, they crossed the Aerodrome road to the Fork turn and had to negotiate a climbing right-hand curve between embankments known as the Test Hill Hairpin before a left-handed swing round the Members’ Banking.

It was a fast course and it was immediately apparent that several of the cars were simply not up to the job. One car had failed to start and the driver – Edward could not see who it was – suffered the indignity of having to be pushed back into the pits. Another car stopped dead on the eighth lap – knowledgeable folk saying that the gearbox must have seized up. Apparently it often happened.

It was frustrating for the watching crowds because the dust cloud was blinding and Edward wondered how the drivers dared to keep their speeds of over 70 mph when they must have very little idea of what was happening just a few yards ahead of them. He looked around him. Mrs Westmacott had her hands to her mouth and little Alice’s excitement had turned to dismay. The noise of the engines, by now almost animal in ferocity, echoed up to the watchers on the roof. The dust began to make them cough and handkerchiefs and scarves were held to noses and mouths. It could not go on and nor indeed did it. In lap twenty, it seemed as though Georgina – the number eight momentarily visible as she took the lead – approached the Vickers Bridge Corner too fast, struggling in vain to combat the massive understeer. To the horror of the onlookers, her car struck the bridge parapet, tipped up on to its nose and rolled on to its side. Georgina was flung out and slid across the course but, by some miracle was not run over as the other cars, breaking to avoid the Austin, skidded across the track and concertinaed into one another.

Edward, aware that there was nothing he could do, nevertheless ran towards the carnage. A firetender was already there dealing with a burning car. Several drivers were walking around in a daze contemplating the disaster. He had no time to tend to anyone other than Georgina. She was being taken on a stretcher towards one of the three ambulances which had reached the accident within three or four minutes. Panting, Edward arrived just as the back doors were being slammed and the ambulance was preparing to depart.

‘How is she?’ he called to the driver.

‘Badly hurt, I’m afraid, sir – broken bones but not dead, not by a long chalk.’

He sighed with relief and asked whether he could travel in the ambulance to the hospital. When he had to admit he was not a relative, he was refused permission.

‘Where’s she being taken?’

On being told it was Weybridge Cottage Hospital, he ran back to where Verity and the others were still sitting, hardly able to take in what had happened – it had been so sudden and so complete a disaster. Miss Hawkins was the first to grab him as he reappeared and ask after her friend. When she heard Georgina was badly hurt but not in danger of dying, she covered her face with her hands and collapsed into a chair.

Verity volunteered to look after Alice while Mrs Westmacott accompanied Edward to the hospital.

‘Alice, do you know the way back to the house?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do. I’ve often come here with Aunt Georgina.’

‘Good girl! Adrian, will you take charge of Alice and Verity?’

‘Don’t worry. You go off. We’ll be all right,’ Adrian reassured him. ‘Just give me the key, will you, Mrs Westmacott?’

She handed over the key to the house, kissed Alice and told her not to worry. ‘Lord Edward says Aunt Georgina is not going to die but we must go and find out how badly hurt she is.’

‘Of course, mother,’ the girl said, quite composed. ‘I’ll be all right. Give her . . . give her my love.’

Despite the drama of the crash, Georgina was the only driver who had been badly injured. They were not allowed into her room immediately because a doctor was still examining her. The cottage hospital, excellent in its way, was not equipped to deal with serious injuries and it was obvious that, as soon as she could be moved, Georgina would have to be taken to one of the big London hospitals. Among those receiving treatment for minor injuries was Kay Petre .

‘Mrs Petre,’ Edward said, ‘Forgive me but may I ask if you are badly hurt?’

‘Oh, it’s you, Lord Edward. No, I’m not hurt – just my wrist . . . see? And a toe, but who needs toes?’ She showed him her swollen wrist and hand. ‘Not broken, I hope, but badly bruised. I won’t be racing for a month or two, that’s for sure. But poor Georgina . . . How is she?’

‘Badly hurt but they say she’ll live. We’re just waiting for the doctor. He’s in with her now.’

‘Thank God! I think she was lucky to get out alive. I don’t know what happened. One moment she was going like a bird and the next . . .’ she raised her good hand to her head in a gesture of bewilderment, ‘she didn’t take the corner.’

Edward suddenly remembered his manners. ‘Oh, Mrs Petre, this is Miss Hay’s sister, Mrs Westmacott.’

‘She wasn’t . . . run over, was she, Mrs Petre?’ Mrs Westmacott asked timidly.

‘No, but as I say, I couldn’t see exactly what happened. I was quite a long way behind after my rotten start but she was thrown a good way across the track. I’ve had several prangs in my time but nothing that bad.’

‘From where we were, it looked as if the dust must have obscured her view at a crucial moment and she hit the embankment,’ Edward said.

‘The dust cloud was appalling. The track should have been swept more thoroughly. I’ll tell Percy Bradley so. Of course, there’ll have to be an inquiry.’

‘You don’t think there is anything fundamentally wrong with Sir Malcolm’s new track?’

‘No. It’s fast, of course, but it’s quite driveable. There are some nasty bumps in the concrete though. Perhaps Georgina hit one of them, or some debris left by the builders. We’ll have to wait and see. I am sure the officials are examining the track at this moment. Oh dear, it will be headlines in the papers and they’ll start saying that it’s not a sport suitable for women and we can’t drive safely and all that sort of rubbish.’

‘Well,’ Mrs Westmacott began, ‘I was frightened before the start and I know Lord Edward was worried.’

’Not about women driving,’ he said diplomatically. ‘The best women drivers are no doubt the equal of the men but . . .’ he saw Kay begin to frown and added hurriedly, ‘but do women have the
strength
to drive such powerful cars?’

‘Georgina has raced much more powerful cars than her Austin. She was perfectly capable of driving it much faster than she was when the crash happened. Perhaps she had a blow-out. It can happen. Who knows? Oh well, there’s no point speculating.’

A nurse appeared and took Kay off to have her wrist and foot strapped up. At the same time, the doctor came out of Georgina’s room and Edward introduced him to Mrs Westmacott.

‘Is my sister going to be all right, doctor?’ she asked nervously.

‘She has a broken arm, a smashed shoulder and a broken rib but, as far as I can tell, she has not suffered any internal bleeding. We are waiting for an ambulance to take her to St Thomas’s in London where she can be assessed properly. One thing is certain, she’s had the devil’s own luck not to be killed.’