‘Hello,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m Lydia Morris. What’s your name?’
The boy didn’t answer.
‘He’s not talking much, I’m afraid. Actually he hasn’t said a word yet. I’m beginning to get a little worried about him.’
‘He’s only two, isn’t he? Plenty of time, I think.’ Even as they talked, Lydia was acutely aware that Claire Marfield’s eyes were not on her but the window, as though she was afraid someone might suddenly appear.
‘I hope so.’
‘Were you just off on holiday? I’m sorry to have interrupted.’
Claire Marfield paused, as if weighing something up. ‘Let’s just say I’m visiting friends,’ she said at last. A horn hooted outside. Once again Claire recoiled, rather as if she had heard gunfire instead of a taxi. She jumped to her feet and took her son’s hand. ‘I’m afraid your time’s up, Miss Morris.’
‘Could I share with you? I came by taxi myself but I let it go. I need to get back into town. We could talk a little more on the way.’
‘If you must. Come on – you can lug the bags while I deal with Walter.’
*
Lydia and Claire Marfield sat in the back of the cab with Walter perched on his mother’s knee. The car stank of stale tobacco smoke. Three pieces of luggage were crammed into the boot.
‘You seem in rather a hurry to get away. Has something happened?’
Claire Marfield turned towards the window, but not before Lydia noticed tears welling up in her eyes. Walter seemed to sense that something was wrong, too, for he nestled closer into his mother’s bosom.
‘Mrs Marfield . . . Claire – please talk to me. We can help, I’m sure of it.’
The other woman shook her head vigorously. Tears fell.
‘Come to my house. Whatever it is, Tom and I will look after you.’
By now Claire Marfield was sobbing, trying not to let Walter hear her crying.
Lydia leant forward and spoke to the driver. ‘Change of plan. We’re not going to the station. Head for Jesus Lane. I’ll show you.’
‘No, no,’ Claire Marfield said. ‘The station. My train . . .’
The driver suppressed his irritation. ‘Station it is then.’
Lydia thought she heard three words that chilled her, though she had no idea what they meant. Claire spoke so quietly that for a moment Lydia thought she might have misheard.
‘I saw something,’ she said.
‘What? Tell me. Please tell me, Claire.’
‘Something terrible. I can’t. I’m sorry . . .’
By now they were at the station. Lydia paid off the taxi as mother and child went into the ticket office. For a moment, Lydia considered following them, but she waited on the concourse and watched as Claire carried her child along the platform, looking about her warily all the while. Assisted by a luggage porter, she got into a first-class compartment of the waiting train.
A couple of minutes later, there was a piercing whistle, a rush of steam, and the southbound train pulled away.
CHAPTER 21
‘Marfield’s father left a suicide note, Tom. His wife verified it. There really isn’t much doubt that he took his own life.’
Wilde and Dr Rupert Weir were in the Eagle in Bene’t Street, having just ordered lunchtime pints of beer.
‘Were there similarities with Charlecote’s death?’
‘Not really. Colonel Marfield sat on a chair, wedged the butt of his shotgun against the wall, held the barrel in his mouth with one hand, used the other to pull the trigger. I’ve seen it before.’
‘Do we have any idea what the note said?’
‘The Ipswich coroner’s office read it to me.’ Rupert Weir dug his hand into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘Here, I took it down.’ He handed it to Wilde.
The note was addressed to Colonel Marfield’s wife, Margaret.
A man can put up with shame. But not this loss of hope. Not the discovery that goodness has fled the world. Margaret, he was my life: our perfect son. The glory of his voice in King’s Chapel, those Sundays around the piano . . . they were the finest of days. And now I can hardly bear to say his name. For what he has become, I can never forgive.
Wilde read it again and frowned. ‘Rather an abrupt ending, Rupert?’
‘In my experience there are two types of suicide: the ones who race home and knot the rope around the banisters at speed and hurl themselves into oblivion without a moment’s hesitation, and then there are those who put off the dread moment, all the while summoning up the courage to do the deed. The first never write notes, the latter often do. I think it probably helps concentrate their minds. But then the end, when it comes, can be a sudden picking up of a pistol, the thoughts unfinished, the note half-written. Compared to some of them, this note is reasonably clear and rounded.’
‘It’s suggesting Marcus changed in some terrible way.’
‘Well, he went off to the Spanish war.’
‘And was that so terrible? Colonel Marfield had been a fighting man. Why would his son taking up arms affect him so deeply?’
Rupert Weir shrugged. ‘Perhaps old man Marfield had a loathing for socialists.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Wilde put down his pint, still almost full. He wanted a clear head, and English beer at lunchtime had a tendency to wipe out afternoons. During the morning, he had visited college in the company of Lincoln Tripp. He left the young American in the old court and called on Marfield’s rooms, on the off-chance. He was surprised when Marfield answered the door, unshaven, in his pyjamas.
‘I appear to have woken you.’
‘I’m sorry, Professor. Still trying to get my bearings.’
‘That’s fine by me. Sleep as much as you like.’ Wilde looked him in the eye and wondered about his brother’s portentous words. ‘Now tell me, where did you disappear to yesterday? And why?’
‘I needed air.’
‘You weren’t by any chance trying to avoid Mr Eaton and Mr Rowlands were you?’
Marfield grinned. ‘Am I that obvious?’
Wilde ignored this attempt at charm. ‘They’ve told me a bit about the work you were doing in Spain. They want to know why you broke off contact with them.’
‘That’s easy – I lost my nerve.’
‘Then why didn’t you just tell them that? And why are you avoiding them now?’
‘I’ve had enough, that’s why. I know their type – they never let you go.’
Wilde made no comment. He had decided not to tell him that they were still in Cambridge. ‘So what now? Even with a dearth of students, I doubt whether the Master and Fellows will be keen to allow you to continue your studies once they hear that you have a wife and child, whom you abandoned.’
‘Do they have to hear that?’
‘Yes, they do – and you have to face up to your responsibilities. I visited your wife again. At home in Histon. You have a fine boy.’
‘Really?’
‘You sound rather indifferent.’
‘Well, there you go.’ Marfield shrugged.
‘Interestingly, there was a van parked outside her house. In the driver’s seat was the woman I saw with you outside the Vanderbergs’ house in London. The woman with the gun. Rosa.’
The blood drained from Marfield’s cheeks.
‘You seem shocked.’
Marfield was silent, his mouth set hard.
‘I approached her,’ Wilde continued, ‘but she drove off at speed.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday evening. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems your past is catching up with you. Don’t you think it might be time to come clean about one or two things?’
Marfield was obviously struggling to compose himself. ‘There’s a lot to think about. For the moment, though, I just want to sing, Professor. Think things through. Perhaps I will go and see my wife and son. But I need time. Please. Is that so unreasonable after two years or more on the front l
ine?’
‘Very well. I’ll leave you with your thoughts. In the meantime, I have a visitor for you.’ He opened the door and signalled to Tripp, who approached with a broad grin.
‘Good Lord,’ Marfield said. ‘If it isn’t Mr Tripp.’
Tripp, newly shaven and back to something like his pristine and rather elegant self, stepped forward and the two young men shook hands like old friends.
‘To what do we owe the honour, Tripp?’
‘Oh you know, Marfield, just passing through. Couldn’t resist calling in on you.’
‘Then you’ll have breakfast with me?’
Tripp threw Wilde a wry look. ‘Of course – every man needs two breakfasts. And then I’ll be on my way back to London.’
‘Just let me throw a few clothes on. Professor, will you join us?’
‘No, Marcus, I have things to do. Enjoy your breakfast with Mr Tripp, but don’t avoid the hard questions too long. They won’t go away.’
Now, here in the Eagle with Rupert Weir, he was wondering about Marfield and the deaths of two men, one certainly suicide, the other less certain. And why on earth was Ptolemy Marfield so afraid?
*
As the train carrying Claire and Walter pulled out of Cambridge Station, Lydia felt she had failed. Claire said she had seen something, but had given no hint as to what that might be. What could she have seen to make her leave her home in such haste?
Despondent, Lydia walked back into the centre of town. On every corner there was a pile of sand and empty bags waiting to be filled. What a miserable way to treat this most beautiful of towns.
Even the grand facade of Addenbrooke’s Hospital was undergoing protective work, and the thought that an enemy might bomb a hospital added to her feeling of despair. However, inside the building, everything was its usual bustle of nurses, patients and doctors.
She found Priscilla Hollick in Dr Charlecote’s office, carting a cardboard box of books.
‘Miss Hollick, can I have a word?’
‘Oh, hello, Miss Morris.’ The voice was decidedly frosty.
‘Could I take you for coffee? There’s something I really think you might be able to help me with.’
‘Really? Might that have something to do with Dr Charlecote’s notebook? I do believe it has been stolen.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Very well.’
*
They walked to Dorothy’s and settled for a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Lydia took the notebook from her bag and laid it on the table.
‘I thought you might be the thief.’
‘Actually, it wasn’t me. And I wouldn’t call it theft. More a little light borrowing in search of truth. The problem is, we can’t read it.’
‘Why should I help you?
‘Because you think there’s something unexplained about Dr Charlecote’s death. And because you’re probably the only person living who can decipher his scrawl. Can you read that last entry concerning his appointment with Marcus Marfield?’
Priscilla Hollick clutched her small slender hands together on the table, on the verge of tears. She looked up defiantly. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through all these years. I loved him. His wife’s illness and death, his crippling arthritis – it was so difficult keeping it secret, all the time knowing how the world would judge us if they ever found out.’
‘I understand, truly I do.’ Lydia reached out and covered the woman’s hands with her own. ‘And I would never judge you. If you must know I’m pregnant and unmarried, so I’m in no position to judge anyone.’
Miss Hollick pulled her hands away and furiously brushed the tears from her eyes. ‘So we’re both wicked sinners and going to hell . . .’
‘I don’t believe loving someone is a sin. But murder is – and we are concerned that the man you loved might not have taken his own life. Please, Miss Hollick, please help us.’
Priscilla Hollick shook her dark hair and dabbed again at her eyes. ‘Give me the book.’
Lydia slid the black-bound notebook across the table. Priscilla Hollick turned it around, then flicked through the pages until she came to the last entry. She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to blow her nose. ‘It’s all a bit shambolic, isn’t it? The funny thing is, he couldn’t even read it back himself, relied on me totally.’
‘Did he ask you to marry him?’
‘We did talk about it, but you know he loved his wife, too. But not in the same way. And when the awful cancer took her, he was beside himself. After she died, well it was all too soon. Perhaps next year, he said. But now of course, I’m just an old maid. No one will ever want me.’
‘You’re an attractive woman. And young enough.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘No, I’m worn out and I look it. I’m used goods – and not even a child to show for it. If you’re in the family way, I envy you.’ She sighed, and stiffened her shoulders. ‘That’s enough of that. Let’s take a look at what he wrote.’
CHAPTER 22
‘He’s at college right now if you want him,’ Wilde said. ‘At least he was ten minutes ago.’
‘Mr Wilde,’ Rowlands said. ‘Did you really think we didn’t know that? Did you think we would have left him on the loose, unwatched, all night long?’
‘So you’ve already spoken to him?’
Eaton was sitting in an armchair, his stick at his side, gripped in his right hand. The empty left sleeve of his suit was tucked neatly into his jacket pocket. He shook his head slowly. ‘First we want to watch him and listen to him, see where he goes, who he talks to.’
Wilde had never been sure about Eaton, but it was difficult not to feel for the man after the life-altering injuries he had suffered just three months earlier. Eaton retained his urbanity, but it was impossible not to detect the light quavering in his measured tones. This must be draining him. ‘Why would you want to watch him?’ Wilde demanded. ‘Do you suspect he’s up to no good?’
‘Don’t you, Wilde? Isn’t that what’s been preying on your mind this past week or more?’
Of course it was. ‘But you do understand that he already knows you’re here?’
‘We accepted that you’d probably told him.’
‘No, that wasn’t the way it happened. You gentlemen carelessly gave your names at the porters’ lodge. He checked there.’
‘Ah, then as you say, that was a little careless of us.’
‘Why don’t you just haul him in?’
Eaton looked exasperated. ‘Wilde, this is Britain, not Germany. You can’t just incarcerate someone because you think they might be up to something. One might apply for an alien to be interned, but not a British-born subject of His Majesty. Not without sound cause.’
‘He’s a Bolshevik – isn’t that enough?’
Eaton raised an eyebrow. ‘You sound uncharacteristically cynical, Wilde.’
‘That’s because I’m sick of the very name of Marcus Marfield. And I’m equally sick of your secret games, Eaton.’
They were in Rowlands’s room, which had the whiff of smoke and expensive eau de cologne. Rowlands turned to his senior officer: ‘Actually, Philip, I agree with Wilde. We’re at war now. The department is stretched to breaking point. We can’t both stay in bloody Cambridge indefinitely in case our rogue agent decides to do something deranged. We could bring him in under the Defence of the Realm Act.’
‘No, that’s not going to happen.’ Eaton sounded more robust. ‘There are those who want to intern every potential foe, but that’s Hitler’s damned way and we’re not going down that road. We keep to the higher ground or we might as well capitulate right now.’
Rowlands drew deep on his cigarette. ‘You see what I’m up against, Wilde?’
‘Why don’t you just go to his rooms now and see what he has to say for himself? Yesterday you wanted me to bring him to you – and you were furious when he slipped away. What’s changed?’
‘The fact that he did a runner to start with. It confirmed that we have reas
on to be suspicious. And so we are adopting another tack – I hope with your assistance.’
Eaton and Rowlands exchanged glances. Eaton nodded.
‘All right, here’s the deal, Mr Wilde,’ Rowlands continued. ‘I’m sure you know a tea room called the Samovar, yes?’
The vision of Marcus sitting conversing earnestly with Elina Kossoff at a small round table and then disappearing into some back room for purposes of their own came instantly to mind. ‘Yes, everyone knows the Samovar. Been in Cambridge at least as long as I have. What of it?’
‘Do you know the people who run the joint?’
‘I’m on nodding terms with the parents, but I know the daughter rather better.’
‘They’re Russian emigrés.’
‘And I suppose that makes them people of interest because there’s a war on.’
‘They were already people of interest.’
‘There are many refugees in Britain. But you obviously think there’s something different about the Kossoffs. They’ve always seemed entirely respectable to me.’
Rowlands tipped tobacco ash into an ashtray, and nodded.
‘Are you hinting at something suspicious about the family?’ Wilde asked.
Eaton dropped his stick and grasped Wilde’s arm with his right hand. ‘We need your help, old boy. We simply don’t have the manpower. I don’t suppose you’re going to be rushing to join the British Army any time soon, so perhaps you’d like to help us in some small way and fight for democracy against the powers of darkness. I know you’re good at this sort of stuff, Wilde.’
‘It’s true I’m acquainted with Elina – but I don’t have the faintest idea how you think she might be involved. What is it you want me to do?’
‘Well, solving the murder of Dr Eric Charlecote might be a start . . .’
‘Charlecote? Good God, Eaton, what do you know about that?’
‘The question is, what do you know, Wilde? You’re the one who’s been running around looking into the case. You suspect Marcus Marfield, don’t you – so why in God’s name haven’t you mentioned this to us?’
‘Surely you don’t suspect the Kossoffs of any involvement?’
Rowlands shrugged non-committally.
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