Precipice, page 4
He paid the fare and stood on the doorstep searching his pockets for his keys. After an evening of champagne and brandy he was a little unsteady on his feet, but his mind was clear enough. He opened the dark green door and locked it behind him then went upstairs. The house was silent, even though some seventeen servants slept on the premises – a butler, a housekeeper, a cook, three footmen, eight maids (three for housework, three for the kitchen, and one each for Margot and Violet), a governess, an odd-job man and a hall porter – this being the bare minimum Margot considered necessary to run a proper establishment. She used one of the three drawing rooms on the first floor as her bedroom, and it was there that he found her, sitting up in bed with a shawl over her nightdress, writing her diary. She laid it down as he came in to say good night.
‘Darling Henry.’
‘Darling.’ He kissed her forehead.
‘How was dinner?’
‘Good.’ He had been to Bedford Square to dine with Raymond and Katharine. Margot had cried off at the last minute, pleading a headache. She had turned fifty earlier in the year. Her migraines were constant.
‘Is he prepared for the inquest?’
‘I believe so. At least, he seems entirely unconcerned.’
‘When is Raymond ever concerned about anything? If he’d shown more concern, this wretched business would never have happened. Do you know some of them actually went to the opera before poor Denis’s body was even found?’ Flippant, callous, idle and blasphemous were just a few of the adjectives she had hurled at the Coterie when she learned of the drownings, which had led in turn to a general rant about the degeneracy of the modern world – Cubists, Futurists, wishy-washy composers, Debussy, politicians who fomented civil war in Ireland, army officers mutinying, cynicism, sensationalist newspapers, Suffragettes slashing pictures . . .
‘Well,’ he said mildly, ‘I have had a word with some useful people and we shall see how it all turns out.’ He didn’t want to say anything else in case he set her off again. ‘Sleep well. I’ll look in on you in the morning.’
He made his way through the darkened state rooms, to the large writing desk overlooking Horse Guards Parade where he liked to work late at night. It was six years since he and Margot had shared a bed. After the disaster of her last confinement – a baby boy, dead on his first day of life – the doctors had told her that another pregnancy would kill her. That had been the end of their conjugal relations. She kept a skull in her bedroom that had been found on her family’s estate in Scotland, to remind her to live life to the full. He could never have made love under the empty eye-sockets of that skull.
He poured himself a glass of brandy, pulled a cord to turn on the shaded desk lamp, and sat down. Arranged around the blotter was a collection of several dozen little animals made of crystal, and miniature silver figures, which he had collected over the years and which he shifted into different groups according to his mood. He unlocked a dispatch box and took out the letter Venetia had sent him that morning.
It was wet over the weekend, so I had plenty of time to study your Irish papers, suitably hidden inside a copy of Tatler! – Papa asked several times if I could not find something more elevating to read – & of course no solution presents itself to my feeble brain that hasn’t occurred to your mighty one. Both sides must give up some ground in the end.
The threat of civil war is so grave that I wonder if there is not some means of shaming them into a compromise. Would you not, in this situation, be justified in turning to the King, & asking him to mediate? The Unionists, of all people, can hardly object to a summons from His Majesty, & the Nationalists will see how serious you are. At the very least it will buy you more time. Dearest darling, do not despair. Something will turn up, I know it.
It wasn’t a bad idea. He had been thinking along similar lines himself. He opened the Irish folder and gloomily regarded the counties of Fermanagh and Tyrone. After a while, in the hope of a diversion, he pushed aside the maps and turned his attention to his nightly folder of diplomatic dispatches. Afterwards he was to remember that it wasn’t even on top of the pile but buried halfway down – a copy of a memorandum from the Foreign Secretary, marked ‘Secret’ and dated that day.
July 6 1914
The German Ambassador spoke very warmly today of the satisfaction and pleasure which had been given to the Emperor and generally, by the visit of the British Admiral to Kiel.
I said that I knew that it had given great satisfaction and pleasure on our side.
The Prime Minister yawned and stretched out his legs. He took a sip of brandy before he resumed reading.
The Ambassador then went on to speak to me privately, he said, but very seriously, as to the anxiety and pessimism that he had found in Berlin. He explained that the murder of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand had excited very strong anti-Serbian feeling in Austria; and he knew for a fact, though he did not know details, that the Austrians intended to do something, and it was not impossible that they would take military action against Serbia.
He looked up. Ten days had passed since the heir to the Austrian-Hungarian throne and his wife had been shot to death by Serbian nationalists in Sarajevo and things had been very quiet – so quiet, he had put the matter entirely out of his mind. He felt as if he had suddenly struck a stone in the road. He put down his glass and resumed reading with quickened interest.
I said that surely they did not think of taking any territory?
The Ambassador replied that they did not wish to take territory because they would not know what to do with it. He thought their idea was that they must have some compensation in the sense of some humiliation for Serbia . . .
A second thing which caused anxiety and pessimism in Berlin was the apprehension in Germany about the attitude of Russia, especially in connection with the recent increase of Russian military strength . . . Russia now had a peace footing of one million men . . .
The Ambassador went so far as to say that there was some feeling in Germany that trouble was bound to come and therefore it would be better not to restrain Austria and let the trouble come now, rather than later.
He finished the memorandum and stared out of the window at the lamps along Horse Guards Parade. His quality as Prime Minister – some said his genius, although he modestly thought that went a little too far – was his capacity to absorb a series of complex and unrelated problems, to discern various solutions and hold them in his head, and to have the patience to wait for the perfect moment to act – or not to act, which in his experience was often the better course, problems having a tendency, if left alone, to solve themselves. ‘Wait and see’ – that was the phrase for which he was most remembered and mocked, although it seemed to him eminently sensible. But what was he to make of this? It might be nothing. It could be Armageddon. There was certainly little he could do about it now. He wished Venetia was in London. It was a precious gift for him to have someone to confide in whose advice wasn’t distorted by self-interest. But she was leaving town in the morning for a voyage to Scotland on the Admiralty yacht with Winston and Clemmie Churchill so there would be no afternoon drive with her on Friday. He hated it when he didn’t see her.
He worked his way through the rest of the telegrams, finished his brandy and went into his bedroom. After he had washed and undressed and put on his nightshirt, he sat up in bed for a while reading a chapter of Our Mutual Friend before his eyes started to close and he fell asleep.
The following morning, Tuesday, Deemer was ordered to return to his normal duties. The assigning officer for the Metropolitan Police’s Number 1 District seemed to derive considerable satisfaction in taking him down a peg or two after his job for Quinn and dispatched him to investigate a spate of burglaries in Pimlico. It was dull work, going from house to house to ask if anyone had seen anything suspicious – a uniformed constable could have done it equally well. Hours later, when he got back to Scotland Yard, he found a message that Quinn wished to see him, urgently. A few minutes after that, he was standing in front of the superintendent’s desk. He was not invited to sit.
The head of Special Branch was a slight, gaunt figure, sixty or thereabouts, with hollow hairy cheeks, dark bushy eyebrows and a small silver goatee on a narrow angular chin. He might have been a distinguished retired amateur jockey from County Mayo. In his delicate hands he held Deemer’s report and started making his odd clicking noise again.
‘I had no idea you were doing all this. It’s much more detail than anyone needs to know.’ To Deemer’s dismay, he was shaking his head. He looked agitated – irritated even. ‘Your name is on the docket as the investigating officer, which means you’re on the witness list for the coroner’s court tomorrow. You must attend.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You must not, however, give evidence. If the coroner calls you, you’re to say that you have nothing material to add to what has already been said. I don’t want you to go perjuring yourself, so the wording is important. Have you got that, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will only cause deep distress to the Anson family and further embarrassment to the witnesses if this story about a drunken wager becomes public.’
He picked up Deemer’s report and dropped it in his wastepaper basket. ‘Are we clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You may go.’
When Deemer was at the door, he called after him, ‘Good work, by the way.’
Deemer passed a restless night and was up early the next morning. He shaved and dressed, taking even greater care than usual, and by eight he was in Lambeth.
The coroner’s court and the mortuary were housed in two nondescript red-brick buildings next to one another. He showed his warrant card and went into the mortuary. The bodies had been transferred into coffins by the undertakers – Anson’s casket polished mahogany with brass handles, Mitchell’s plain pine. The lids were off. Both men looked shockingly young, innocent almost, in their suits and ties. They might have been brothers. Anson’s face had scratches on the nose but was otherwise unmarked. Deemer stooped to examine the floral tributes heaped beneath his casket. On a huge bouquet of white roses, red carnations and lilies of the valley, a message read ‘From the Prime Minister and Mrs Asquith’. Mitchell’s coffin was unadorned.
He went back out into the cobbled courtyard. By now half a dozen photographers had taken up positions beside the entrance, and soon afterwards the witnesses and their supporting companions and the relatives of the dead began to arrive, all in black – black dresses, hats and gloves, even black parasols, the men in black suits and top hats. He recognised a few faces from the pier. Count Benckendorff striding on his own. Lady Diana Manners with an intimidating old lady he assumed must be the Duchess of Rutland. Raymond Asquith flanked by two lawyers in tailcoats, one of whom was the famous barrister and Unionist MP F. E. Smith. Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the actor-manager, with his scandalous daughter Iris. The photographers’ lights flashed continuously.
He waited until the last of them had walked past him before following them inside. The court was no bigger than a schoolroom – a bare wooden floor, whitewashed walls – stuffy on a July morning even with the windows open. He managed to squeeze himself into a corner at the back. Every square foot was occupied – officials, jurors, witnesses, spectators, reporters, lawyers . . . Good God, the lawyers! Lambeth Coroner’s Court could never have seen such a turnout. Two silks, neither worth less than ten thousand a year – F. E. Smith representing the guests on the boat, Ernest Pollock, another Unionist MP, appearing on behalf of the Anson family – supported by junior counsel, both KCs jumping up and down to pay tribute to the heroism of William Mitchell and to pledge financial support on behalf of their clients for his widow and her eighteen-month-old son.
This set the tone for what followed, so that Deemer quickly had the sensation he was watching not an inquiry but a play – one of Beerbohm Tree’s productions, perhaps – in which every character had been given their lines and had learned their parts, not least the coroner, who announced he saw no need to reveal the full list of guests on board the boat, did not intend to comment on the case, but would simply put the facts before the jury and ask them to return a verdict.
Captain White was the first witness to be called and testified that the party was definitely not drunk: ‘merry, but sober’.
The Anson family’s barrister rose.
Pollock: ‘Sir Denis was merely in good spirits?’
White: ‘Yes.’
Pollock: ‘I am glad to hear you say that, because I should like to hear you emphasise and say that there is absolutely no foundation for saying that he had had too much to drink or anything of that sort.’
White: ‘I should say certainly not.’
Pollock: ‘He was merry and full of life and only behaved as we would all like to see our sons behave?’
White: ‘Yes, sir.’
The first mate backed up his captain: ‘None of them was the worse for drink.’ Count Benckendorff insisted that Anson was ‘quite sober, skipping about and amusing people’. Mr Duff Cooper stated that ‘Sir Denis drank a little champagne but was perfectly sober’. Mr Claud Russell said the same.
The coroner: ‘Did you see him give his watch to anybody before he dived in?’
Russell: ‘Yes, a second before he dived, he said, “Here take my watch”, and handed it to someone.’
The coroner: ‘Did you think there was any real danger?’
Russell hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ said the coroner, quickly cutting off his own line of inquiry. ‘You may stand down.’ He looked around. ‘Detective Sergeant Deemer?’
At the sound of his name, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. It seemed to take him an awfully long time to reach the witness stand, edging down the side of the courtroom and along the front, past the lawyers, stepping over Smith’s outstretched legs. He was conscious of their scrutiny and sensed a slight tightening of the atmosphere, or perhaps it was just a projection of his own nerves.
‘Sergeant Deemer, you attended the scene at Westminster Pier in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy and took charge of the police investigation. Do you have anything to add to what you have heard?’
Deemer glanced at the ranks of black-clad figures. Afterwards he wished he had found the courage to say yes, actually, he most certainly did, that this was all a fiction, that—
But instead, he found himself replying quietly, ‘I have nothing material to add to what has already been said.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. You may stand down.’
As he returned to his place, he avoided the gaze of everyone in the courtroom. They were a blur to him. He felt humiliated, ashamed. Behind him, the coroner had begun his summing-up. He had not called Raymond Asquith to give evidence, nor Lady Diana Manners.
‘Gentlemen of the jury, nothing has been kept back. All the facts have been placed before you. It is a short story, and a simple and a sad one. Sir Denis Anson appears to have been a young man of very high spirits and courage: plucky almost to recklessness. There is no evidence – and as far as I understand there is no suggestion – that Sir Denis was under the influence of drink . . .
‘Unfortunately, the tragedy has involved the death of another brave man, whose wife is now a widow and whose child is fatherless. This man paid a terrible price for his bravery. I am sure you all rejoice with me to hear what has been said in this court as to the assistance which will be given to his widow and child.’
The jury didn’t even need to leave the courtroom to deliberate. After a whispered conference the foreman stood and in a confident voice returned their verdict: ‘Accidental death by drowning in each case.’ It was all over by eleven o’clock.
The coroner gavelled to signal the end of the hearing. The main body of spectators rose. Deemer pressed himself against the wall as the ladies passed by first – an expensive sickly odour of eau de toilette, a rustle of black silk, a flutter of fans, and a low murmur of relief that the business was done, that they could escape this stifling place with its talk of death and file out gratefully into the fresh air and the sunlight. Venetia Stanley, he noticed, was not among them.
First thing the next morning, when he arrived for his shift at Scotland Yard, he found a message in his pigeonhole summoning him to see Superintendent Quinn. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He went upstairs at once.
The superintendent was signing letters. ‘Sit down, Sergeant. I shan’t keep you a moment.’
He had half a dozen newspapers spread out across the desk in front of him, arranged in a semi-circle, each folded to its report of the inquest. Deemer found himself trying to read the headlines upside down. Was he about to be commended or condemned? But when Quinn finally put down his pen and peered at him over a pair of half-moon spectacles, he made no reference to the case.
‘What do you know about Special Branch, Sergeant?’
‘Very little, sir.’
‘Excellent – that’s exactly as it should be. Well, let me tell you, we’re a small division, one hundred and fourteen officers to be exact, including myself. Unlike the rest of the Metropolitan Police, we also operate outside London, across the entire country. We’re responsible for checking suspects entering and leaving through the ports and railway stations, keeping track of aliens living here, protecting royalty and Cabinet ministers. We also have the task of arresting saboteurs, spies and any other such persons considered a threat to national security, at the direction of a certain department of the War Office that doesn’t officially exist. It’s a lot of work for a few score men. Are you married, Sergeant? Do you have children?’
‘I’m unmarried, sir.’
‘Good. That’s an advantage. The days are long. The hours are irregular. Sometimes you’ll be weeks away from home, doing work you mostly can’t talk about. That puts a strain on a marriage. Parents still alive? Brothers and sisters?’
