Nemesis

by Rory Clements

Margaret Marfield stood in the doorway. She looked exhausted. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.

  ‘Because Marcus is in trouble.’

  ‘Then nothing changes, does it.’ The older woman made to close the door. Elina put a hand out to stop her.

  ‘Mrs Marfield, we both know what sort of young man he is. In a word, he is reckless – a danger to himself. He is not like other men. Sometimes he is more like a boy than a man, but a wild, beautiful, uncontrollable boy. And because of this he needs our help.’

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ Margaret Marfield said with a resigned air. ‘Better than burgling me and turning the house upside down.’

  She led Elina into the sitting room. Elina knew Marcus had ransacked it only a few days earlier, but some attempt had been made to tidy it up. There was damage to furnishings, cushions slashed, drawers were still tipped out and papers and books were scattered over a table.

  ‘This is something to do with his father’s death, I take it, and the parcel he sent before he shot himself. I’m not sure what was in it, and nor do I want to know. I would do nothing to harm my son, Miss Ruskin, but I want no more to do with him.’

  Elina gave the woman a reassuring smile. ‘You have not been honest with your son, Mrs Marfield. When you said you saw the parcel and that it was addressed to Professor Wilde, that was not true, was it? His name was merely the first that came into your head.’

  ‘I told the truth.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere. If you will not be honest with me, how are we to help Marcus?’

  ‘Tell me again, Miss Ruskin, what makes you think I want to help him? He has brought shame and disaster upon this house. Anyway, what exactly is your relationship to him?’ Some of Mrs Marfield’s steel had returned.

  ‘I knew Marcus at Cambridge before he went away. He contacted me as an old friend when he returned from Spain because he needed help. Like you, I have no idea what is in this parcel he wants, nor its significance, but I do know he is being driven to distraction by its disappearance.’

  ‘Well, I have already told him all I know. Who knows, perhaps his wife has it. Did you know he has a wife, Miss Ruskin?’

  Elina looked around the room. There were no pictures of Marcus on display, but one or two other photographs had been rescued from the debris, including one of a young man in cricket whites who bore a passing resemblance to Marcus, a bulkier man with poor skin and none of his beauty or grace. Did Marcus have a brother?

  She rose from her chair and picked up the picture. ‘Who is this, Mrs Marfield?’

  The older woman hesitated. ‘That’s my nephew,’ she said. ‘Marcus’s cousin . . . Edward.’

  ‘Not his brother then?’ Elina knew instantly that she was lying. ‘The parcel was sent to him, not Professor Wilde, isn’t that the truth?’

  Margaret Marfield shook her head a shade too vehemently. ‘Marcus doesn’t have a brother.’

  Elina prised open the silver frame. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, but she ignored it and held up the picture to study the face. Despite the darker hair and the heavier jowls, the likeness was clear. She turned it over: Ptolemy, Lowestoft, 1934.

  ‘Ptolemy? What sort of name is that? Doesn’t sound at all like Edward.’

  ‘Please, give me that picture. It means a great deal to me.’

  ‘Where is he? Where does he live?’

  ‘None of this is anything to do with you, Miss Ruskin. These are family matters.’

  Elina opened her handbag and inserted the photograph.

  ‘Give that back!’

  ‘You’re scared of Marcus, aren’t you? He terrifies you – that’s why you made up the story about Professor Wilde. You feared for your other son. Where can I find him?’

  Margaret Marfield lunged for the bag, but Elina sidestepped her and pushed her to the ground. As the older woman scrabbled to try to get to her feet, Elina looked around. On the table with all the papers there was a telephone. Beside it, half-concealed, was a dark blue leather-bound address book. She crossed the room and picked it up.

  ‘That’s not yours, Miss Ruskin. Leave it and get out of my house this minute.’

  But Elina was already leafing through the book and there, under the letter M, she found it. Toll Marfield, with an address in Oxford crossed out and replaced with the name of a school in Essex. A teacher? She looked at her watch. Time was tight, but it had to be done.

  *

  ‘She’s been found, Tom, she’s alive.’

  ‘Jim, that’s wonderful. Is she with you?’

  ‘No, I’m still on the mainland with Henry, waiting for the boat bringing them over from the island. I’m not sure she’s even conscious yet . . . and I think she’s injured. But she’s alive, Tom. Juliet is alive. I had almost given up hope.’

  Wilde looked at Eaton, who nodded. ‘Thank the Lord, Jim.’

  The faint sound of laughter came down the line. ‘This isn’t driving you back to the church, is it, Tom?’

  ‘Who knows? Stranger things have happened. But look, Jim, we have a rather urgent situation over here. I wouldn’t get you involved, but as you’re on the line I can’t think of anyone better. I’m here with Philip Eaton. You remember him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This probably sounds insane, but we believe we have uncovered a plot to assassinate Joe Kennedy. I’m afraid it involves Marcus Marfield, the young man we brought to your house.’

  ‘Marfield? I guess brutal conflicts like the Spanish war change people.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later. We were just about to call the embassy. Who should we talk to there?’

  ‘Herschel Johnson’s the man – Joe’s second-in-command. He also happens to be a good chum of your senior MI5 men. He’ll know what to do – and he’ll take decisive action.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ve met Herschel. Jim, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve found Juliet. Lydia will be, too.’

  ‘Well, let’s not break out the champagne until we know how she is. But to get back to this Kennedy thing . . . I’m kicking my heels while I wait for the boat. I’ll call Herschel for you – it’ll save time. Meanwhile, you can contact the cops or whatever else you think necessary.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim. And give all our love to Juliet, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Wilde replaced the receiver. ‘Did you get the gist of that, Eaton?’

  ‘I think so. Let me call Carstairs and he’ll get things moving. We need to drive to London sharpish.’

  Lydia had appeared, having walked silently down the stairs on slippered feet. She cleared her throat and they turned to her. ‘Well if you two are going to London, I’m coming with you. I don’t want to be left alone with that bloody maniac still on the loose.’

  *

  The drive to Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy in the heart of London was long and tedious, frequently held up by military traffic. As the driver turned off Park Lane, Wilde consulted his watch. Noon. What, he wondered, had happened since they had left Cambridge? He smiled at Lydia. She didn’t look well.

  ‘Lydia – what will you do?’ Wilde took her hand.

  ‘I’m going to book myself into a hotel. I’m sorry – I’m feeling weak.’

  ‘Claridge’s is just around the corner,’ Eaton said. ‘We’ll drop you there. They’ll look after you. You get out here, Tom – I’ll be at the office in St James’s Street. Call me through Carstairs.’

  Wilde leant over and kissed Lydia. ‘Will you get a room and sleep?’

  ‘I think I have to, darling.’

  ‘I’ll scoot around and join you as soon as I have the lie of the land.’

  *

  Herschel Johnson wasn’t at the embassy. Nor was the ambassador himself. The whole place was chaotic, with hundreds of Americans demanding assistance. After a few minutes Wilde was shown into an expansive office on the first floor, looking out over the leafy square, where he was greeted by one of Johnson’s assistants, a
woman of about forty.

  ‘We’ve heard from Mr Vanderberg,’ she said, ‘but Mr Johnson hasn’t been in today. He’s up at Wall Hall with the ambassador and his family so I’m afraid I haven’t managed to talk to him yet.’

  Wilde was alarmed. ‘Then Jim hasn’t got the message through?’

  ‘Oh, I sure hope so, Professor Wilde. Mr Vanderberg spoke with Mr Lincoln Tripp. I’m sure he’s dealt with it properly.’

  ‘Where is Tripp?’ Alarm bells jangled.

  ‘He was just about to set off for Wall Hall when the call came through. He’ll be there by now and will have given Mr Vanderberg’s message to Mr Johnson in person. Mr Tripp is a very reliable young man. I’m sure Mr Vanderberg has faith in him.’

  ‘But this concerns a threat to the ambassador’s life.’

  The woman smiled with what Wilde considered a hint of condescension. ‘We receive death threats all the time, Mr Wilde. It goes with the territory, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can we call Wall Hall from here?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why they’re all out in Hertfordshire on a working day?’

  ‘It’s Mr Kennedy’s farewell party for his family before they leave for home. And it’s Miss Rosemary’s twenty-first birthday tomorrow. It’s a big celebration. Mr Johnson and Mr Tripp are both family friends, so they have been invited, too.’

  *

  The butler at Wall Hall came to the phone. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Professor Thomas Wilde. I’d like to speak to either Herschel Johnson or the ambassador.’

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve just left, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean? Aren’t they having a party there this evening?’

  ‘Indeed so, sir. We are expecting them back late afternoon. The table is all set for a family banquet.’

  ‘Then where are they now?’ Wilde was beginning to feel the cold edge of dread. Things were spinning out of control.

  ‘I can’t exactly tell you, sir, but I believe it is a church with some special significance. A Mass is to be said, and there is to be singing. I wish I could tell you more.’

  ‘Does anyone else in that house know where they’re going?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, sir. It is intended as a treat for Mrs Kennedy, who is a most pious Roman Catholic lady.’

  ‘Look – you have to find out! Someone there must know something.’

  ‘All I can tell you is that it’s an hour or so from here, sir.’ The butler remained unruffled. ‘May I inquire as to your interest, sir?’

  ‘The ambassador is in danger. Look, is Tripp there – Lincoln Tripp?’

  ‘The young American gentleman from the embassy? Yes, sir, he arrived – but he too went with the family. They went in five cars, in convoy.’ A slight pause. ‘What is the nature of the danger, sir?’

  Wilde ignored the question and fished in his pocket for the paper with Eaton’s details. ‘I’ll give you a couple of numbers – call if you can find out where they’re going.’

  *

  Wilde immediately put a call through to Eaton’s office. ‘I’m going up there,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean? Where?’

  ‘Someone at Wall Hall must know where they’ve gone. I’m going to find them if it’s the last thing I do. You organise things from this end. Call the office of the Catholic Archbishop of Westminster. See if they know anything about this church service. Must be some event, so it might have been organised through them. Get every constabulary in Hertfordshire and Cambridgeshire and adjoining counties looking for a convoy of five official cars.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eaton, I don’t need to tell you all this. Oh, and I need a car.’

  ‘I’ll send the driver to Claridge’s. He’ll hand over the keys to you.’

  ‘And Eaton, a firearm would be welcome.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Lydia was sleeping when Wilde arrived at the hotel. He didn’t disturb her, just left her a message, and then studied maps supplied by the concierge while waiting for the car and pistol. They arrived ten minutes later.

  He drove out of London at speed. He knew where to find Wall Hall, but more importantly he needed to work out where the Kennedy convoy of cars was heading. A place of special significance, the butler had said. Somewhere north of Wall Hall, and about an hour from the estate. That had to mean something between thirty and fifty miles – a huge amount of territory to consider, from Brackley in the west, to Bedford due north or Saffron Walden in the east.

  But the Kennedys were renowned for their Catholicism, so it had to be a Catholic church or chapel. How many of those were there in this Protestant country?

  Something like the shrine at Walsingham in north Norfolk – too distant for today’s journey, but that sort of thing, surely? The Roman Catholic cathedral in Norwich? Again, too far. Perhaps the church of Our Lady and the English Martyrs in south-east Cambridge. Wilde knew it as a nineteenth-century edifice of questionable beauty, but that also, surely, was too far.

  Wilde reached Wall Hall within fifty-five minutes. The gun weighed heavy in his jacket pocket as he followed the footman through the halls and corridors of the elegant mansion to the office of the butler, Hobbs.

  Wilde tried to speak, but the butler, dressed in formal attire, raised a finger to stop him. ‘Professor Wilde, if I may just get a word in edgeways. You haven’t told me why you are worried about the ambassador’s wellbeing?’

  ‘There’s a death threat – a possible assassin. I am working with the British intelligence services. Mr Kennedy needs to be warned – and he needs protection.’

  ‘He does have a security man with him.’

  ‘All to the good, but that may not be enough. Now, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Very little, sir. I have asked about, but no one seems to have details of where he has gone. I think the person best placed to talk to you would be Miss Ulyanova, who has been organising things, but she is not here at the moment.’

  ‘Miss Ulyanova?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I believe she suggested the destination to Mr Kennedy.’

  ‘Is she with them?’

  ‘She went ahead.’

  ‘This Miss Ulyanova – what is her role here?’

  ‘Ah, now, sir, that is not easy to answer. I would say she is a secretary or personal assistant, but she is quite new so defining her role is not straightforward.’

  If the butler was suggesting some impropriety, he concealed his suspicion with great skill.

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Not tall, fair-haired . . . very pretty, I suppose.’

  ‘And she has her own car?’

  ‘Indeed she does. A rather splendid Morgan two-seater.’

  ‘Not red by any chance?’

  ‘Indeed, it is, sir.’

  Red sports car. Elina Kossoff. It had to be. ‘And Lincoln Tripp was here, too?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe he also has been involved in today’s celebrations and I am told he has booked a most remarkable young tenor as the highlight of the religious event. One of England’s finest voices, it is said.’

  ‘I need to use your telephone, Mr Hobbs.’

  *

  There was something in the back of his mind. Some memory from long ago. But he couldn’t place it. The phone was ringing, but no one was picking up. He was about to cut off the call when Carstairs answered.

  ‘Forgive the delay, Professor Wilde. I was away from my desk for a few moments. Let me put you through.’

  Eaton was frustrated. He hadn’t got anywhere in his efforts to identify the Kennedys’ destination. Nor was he hopeful of the police finding the ambassador’s convoy of five cars. ‘We’re talking hundreds of square miles, Wilde. Not quite as bad as needles in haystacks, but far from easy.’

  ‘Lincoln Tripp is with them. He has invited a tenor along.’

  ‘Marcus Marfield?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Dear Go
d. We have to find them!’

  ‘There’s more. Kennedy has an employee with an office here who has been involved in organising the event: name of Ulyanova, but I’m sure it’s Elina Kossoff. She’s not in evidence either.’

  ‘What do we do, Wilde?’

  ‘I was about to ask you that. Eaton, in the far reaches of my mind, there is a memory – something relevant, but I can’t nail it down.’

  ‘Well, there are scores of Catholic churches . . .’

  ‘We can’t scour them all.’

  ‘We don’t have a lot of staff here, but the secretaries are phoning around the priests associated with each church or Catholic establishment. Could it be a Catholic school, do you think?’

  Possible. Worth a phone call, certainly.

  ‘Come on, Wilde, you’re the history man. You must know all the sites of interest to Catholics. Something to do with the Reformation, for instance? The persecution of the Catholic martyrs . . .’

  Wilde’s hair prickled. ‘Stop there, Eaton. I think I’ve got it. It’s not a Catholic church – at least not any more. It’s a small, half-ruined Protestant church. St Peter’s on the Gilderstone estate. Look on the Ordnance Survey. I’ll explain all later. Send reinforcements. I’ve got to go. Pray God I’m in time.’

  *

  No one could chance upon the church of St Peter. Half-ruined, covered in ivy, it stood in ancient woodland in the very heart of the ten-thousand-acre Gilderstone estate. Elina Kossoff met Marcus Marfield in a small glade, a few hundred yards from the narrow pathway that led through the trees to the church. There was no road access, so cars had to be parked hundreds of yards away.

  He had been waiting there for three quarters of an hour for her to arrive with the weapons.

  She handed the bag over to him. ‘I’m sorry, I had other business.’ She didn’t bother telling him that she had been over every inch of the weapons to erase her own fingerprints.

  ‘The service will be under way in half an hour. The full Tridentine Mass. I need to conceal the guns.’

  ‘Why not simply walk in there firing?’

  ‘I have to sing first.’

  He was a strange one, but then she had always known that. Why did he have to sing for these people before killing them? The answer, of course, was that he wasn’t singing for them – he was singing for himself. This had always been about Marcus Marfield.