believed, Verity confirmed that he was an active communist. Who else might have
wanted Tilney dead? Lots of questions, but somehow he knew that, today at least, he would never ask them. Not having seen Verity for six months made him shy or even guilty – guilty that he
had not missed her more. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he felt he had been idling his life away in an unreal world of luxury and artifice while she had been roughing it in the real world, making
a name for herself as a journalist to whom people listened. Perhaps it wasn’t guilt he felt but envy.
In any case, it was too early and much too cold to ask and answer questions. It was enough to ride in silence through the Surrrey countryside with this feisty, gallant girl beside him, for once
silent, vulnerable and trusting. She was so different from the girls he had met as a young man in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and Eaton Square, waiting complacently or apathetically to be selected
for breeding by one of the arrogant males before whom they paraded. Even then the ‘deb’s delights’, as the men were called, had referred to ‘the season’ as a cattle
market and had made jokes about the mothers who chaperoned their girls with such terrible determination.
They had the hood up over the tonneau and Verity snuggled up to him and fell fast asleep, making it difficult for Edward to change gear without waking her. In her sleep she occasionally
shivered, whether from the cold or because of her dreams, he could not say. He felt unutterably happy.
Croydon aerodrome was not much more than a cluster of hangars around a tarmacked runway. The one building of character was the control tower and there they found Harry Bragg already prepared for
take-off. He fed them hot black coffee and bacon sandwiches to keep out the cold. ‘Good to see you, Corinth. Last time must have been two years ago in Mombasa, eh?’ The two men shook
hands, more or less ignoring Verity, in Bragg’s case out of shyness. Since his disfigurement, he felt he was repulsive to look at. Verity, still in something of a trance, did not seem to
notice him at all. ‘The weather looks set fair,’ Bragg said. His voice was a little slurred, not because of drink, though he and Edward both had flasks of brandy with them, but because
of his war injury. ‘It’s going to be cold, old lad – and noisy. This old bus is a goer – no question of that – one of the fastest in the sky but she’s noisy and
she leaks. Know what I mean?’ He grinned. Edward knew what he meant – it was going to be very cold.
Bragg was curious about why his old friend was being whisked off to Madrid in an aeroplane instead of the usual train journey across France but he knew better than to ask. Lord Weaver had given
him his instructions in person but had told him nothing except that he was to deliver Verity, the New Gazette’s Spanish correspondent, and Lord Edward Corinth to Madrid with all
possible despatch and then return to London to await further orders. Now all he said was, ‘We won’t be able to talk much on the flight but I will indicate like this if there is anything
I think you ought to see.’ He waved his gauntlet-covered hands first in one direction and then in the other.
They took off into a gun-metal sky. Verity was awake now but, as Bragg had warned them, the de Havilland Dragon Rapide was too noisy to make conversation possible. At first they flew low over
green fields and Edward could see farm workers stare up at them in surprise. Aeroplanes were still objects of wonder when most people never travelled faster than a horse could gallop or went
further than their local market town in a lifetime. They gained height over the grey, cold Channel and once again Verity seemed to sleep but Edward was now wide-awake, his brain racing with
questions only time could answer. Always, he was aware of the irony: Verity was depending on him to save her lover from a death he probably richly deserved and
wanted Tilney dead? Lots of questions, but somehow he knew that, today at least, he would never ask them. Not having seen Verity for six months made him shy or even guilty – guilty that he
had not missed her more. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he felt he had been idling his life away in an unreal world of luxury and artifice while she had been roughing it in the real world, making
a name for herself as a journalist to whom people listened. Perhaps it wasn’t guilt he felt but envy.
In any case, it was too early and much too cold to ask and answer questions. It was enough to ride in silence through the Surrrey countryside with this feisty, gallant girl beside him, for once
silent, vulnerable and trusting. She was so different from the girls he had met as a young man in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and Eaton Square, waiting complacently or apathetically to be selected
for breeding by one of the arrogant males before whom they paraded. Even then the ‘deb’s delights’, as the men were called, had referred to ‘the season’ as a cattle
market and had made jokes about the mothers who chaperoned their girls with such terrible determination.
They had the hood up over the tonneau and Verity snuggled up to him and fell fast asleep, making it difficult for Edward to change gear without waking her. In her sleep she occasionally
shivered, whether from the cold or because of her dreams, he could not say. He felt unutterably happy.
Croydon aerodrome was not much more than a cluster of hangars around a tarmacked runway. The one building of character was the control tower and there they found Harry Bragg already prepared for
take-off. He fed them hot black coffee and bacon sandwiches to keep out the cold. ‘Good to see you, Corinth. Last time must have been two years ago in Mombasa, eh?’ The two men shook
hands, more or less ignoring Verity, in Bragg’s case out of shyness. Since his disfigurement, he felt he was repulsive to look at. Verity, still in something of a trance, did not seem to
notice him at all. ‘The weather looks set fair,’ Bragg said. His voice was a little slurred, not because of drink, though he and Edward both had flasks of brandy with them, but because
of his war injury. ‘It’s going to be cold, old lad – and noisy. This old bus is a goer – no question of that – one of the fastest in the sky but she’s noisy and
she leaks. Know what I mean?’ He grinned. Edward knew what he meant – it was going to be very cold.
Bragg was curious about why his old friend was being whisked off to Madrid in an aeroplane instead of the usual train journey across France but he knew better than to ask. Lord Weaver had given
him his instructions in person but had told him nothing except that he was to deliver Verity, the New Gazette’s Spanish correspondent, and Lord Edward Corinth to Madrid with all
possible despatch and then return to London to await further orders. Now all he said was, ‘We won’t be able to talk much on the flight but I will indicate like this if there is anything
I think you ought to see.’ He waved his gauntlet-covered hands first in one direction and then in the other.
They took off into a gun-metal sky. Verity was awake now but, as Bragg had warned them, the de Havilland Dragon Rapide was too noisy to make conversation possible. At first they flew low over
green fields and Edward could see farm workers stare up at them in surprise. Aeroplanes were still objects of wonder when most people never travelled faster than a horse could gallop or went
further than their local market town in a lifetime. They gained height over the grey, cold Channel and once again Verity seemed to sleep but Edward was now wide-awake, his brain racing with
questions only time could answer. Always, he was aware of the irony: Verity was depending on him to save her lover from a death he probably richly deserved and
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