by V M Knox
‘Father Rathbourne?’ Clement enquired.
‘Yes,’ Rathbourne snapped.
The abrupt response surprised Clement. ‘How do you do. I’m Reverend Clement Wisdom.’
‘The visiting vicar studying St Augustine. The Master told me you had a parish in East Sussex?’ Rathbourne said, without making any eye contact with Clement.
‘Yes. That’s correct. In Fearnley Maughton, it’s a small village just east of Lewes.’
‘Nice part of the country. So why did you move?’
‘My wife died.’
‘This war is responsible for a great many unnecessary deaths.’
‘She died from pneumonia, actually.’
‘We shouldn’t be in it. It’s all a senseless waste of life. They are our cousins, for goodness sake.’ Rathbourne turned to stare at him, the munching continuing. Clement noted that Rathbourne’s intense eyes were almost black. He had a full head of near-black hair, and strong prominent eyebrows with a large, angular nose. Clement wondered if Rathbourne had French or Spanish ancestors. Small beads of saliva were collecting at the corners of his mouth and a crumb had lodged in the fold where his lips joined. Rathbourne grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth. An awkward pause ensued.
Clement changed the subject. ‘I am wondering if you would like me to assist you with anything? You must be very busy and I could take Matins or Evensong on occasions for you, if you’d like?’
Rathbourne sniffed loudly then turned again to face Clement. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Rathbourne said, shovelling another fork-load of food into his mouth. ‘What’s your view on this war?’
Clement made a quick assessment. ‘I am, like a great many, tired of the bombing. So much destruction and sad loss of innocent life.’ Clement waited hoping that Rathbourne would continue to talk.
‘Warmongers. Self-serving warmongers. And Churchill is the worst of them. He and his Jewish friends.’
Clement watched the priest reach for a plate of bread and rip a handful of dough from it. ‘You don’t support the Prime Minister then?’ Clement ventured.
Rathbourne spun around in his chair. ‘Needless. The whole thing. What have the Poles ever done for us? I ask you?’
Clement picked up his knife and fork. ‘I so agree with you,’ he lied.
Rathbourne grunted but continued to eat. Clement thought it wisest not to pursue the topic further. Nothing more was said. Rathbourne continued to eat and drink with the ferocity of a farmyard animal. Clement wondered what had called a man like Rathbourne to the priesthood. As much as he would have liked to have asked, Clement thought better of it. Rathbourne pushed his empty plate away and stood to leave, throwing his napkin onto the plate. He turned to face Clement. ‘Come to chapel this evening. Nine o’clock, Father Wisdom. Then afterwards, I’ll show you where the vestments are kept.’
‘I prefer the title Reverend…’ but Rathbourne had already left the table. Clement stared after the elderly man. He wasn’t sure if Rathbourne was hard of hearing or had been deliberately ill-mannered. During the whole course of the meal, Rathbourne hadn’t spoken to a soul other than himself. Clement watched the man leave Hall. Ill-mannered or deaf, it mattered little to Clement and Rathbourne’s religious proclivities were of no relevance to his current situation. However, the man’s political opinions were another matter entirely. And he hadn’t seen either of the two young men.
Clement wandered back across the courtyard towards his room on the upper floor. It was still light, the sun picking out the shapes of leaves on the trees in The Backs and making the river sparkle. He stood on the memorial terrace for a few minutes staring at the water below. His gaze settled on the stone steps that descended from the side of the terrace to the Cam River. A small rowboat was tied up there.
He left the terrace and took the stairs to his room. Standing on the landing outside his door, he ran his hand along the upper edge and retrieved the thread from the lintel. Opening the door wide, his eyes scanned the room. Nothing that he could see had been disturbed. Not that he expected trouble. The actions were purely precautionary. He closed the door and locked it, placing the thread on the inside lintel. Why had Bill Hayward allocated him a room at the far end of the college? Clement hadn’t thought about it before, believing the room was permanently given to older students, but now he was beginning to wonder if perhaps it had been Bill’s intention to give him a room close to the river. Was it just a kindly gesture? Or was he there because it was as far away from Father Rathbourne’s rooms as possible? Was it even significant?
Just before nine, he heard the chapel bell. Closing the door to his room, he replaced the thread over his door and headed downstairs. Despite the summoning bell, only two people sat in the pews. Rathbourne started the service never once making eye contact with any of his small congregation. For clerics like Rathbourne, Clement decided, it almost didn’t matter that few attended; it was the observance of ritual that was important. An hour later the service concluded. As the two people in front of him stood, he recognised the two young men from the window. At the door Rathbourne grasped his shoulder. ‘You can take the Eucharist this Sunday. After I’ve shown you where things are kept you may care to come to my study. You can meet some other people who think as we do.’
‘Thank you. When?’
‘As soon as we’ve finished here.’
‘I’d like that,’ Clement said. ‘Where are your rooms?’
‘Here. First floor, staircase next to the chapel.’
Clement waited while Rathbourne disrobed. The vestments were exactly where Clement expected them to be, in the vestry. But Rathbourne appeared intent on showing him how everything was folded and stored. It seemed straightforward to Clement but he didn’t say so. From Rathbourne’s manner, Clement was in no doubt that the priest saw everything in the vestry as his personal property and that anyone other than himself handling the items was in some way sacrilegious. Half an hour later, they left the chapel and walked to the priest’s nearby rooms.
Rathbourne opened his door and Clement stepped into the room. Before him, seated on either side of a large stone fireplace, were the two young men. Standing beside them was a tall young man with blond hair and prominent teeth.
Rathbourne closed the door behind him. Clement heard the key being inserted into the lock, the barrel sliding into place.
‘This is Father Wisdom. He’s visiting from East Sussex. Father Wisdom, may I introduce Gus Hutchinson, reading theology, Bertie Hawkins, mathematics and Hugh Armstrong, the son of a friend of mine.’
‘What’s a priest from East Sussex doing in Cambridge?’ Armstrong asked, a smirk forming on his face.
‘Running away,’ Clement answered.
‘From?’
‘Ghosts.’
‘Father Wisdom is a widower, Hugh,’ Rathbourne said.
‘A victim of the Luftwaffe, presumably,’ Hugh said.
‘No.’
‘Will you have a whisky, Father Wisdom?’ Rathbourne asked, pouring five whiskies.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not indeed.’ Rathbourne passed the tray to Hugh who handed the drinks around.
‘A toast,’ Hugh interrupted. ‘To leadership!’ Armstrong swallowed the whisky in one gulp.
‘To absent friends and other martyrs,’ Rathbourne said. ‘Won’t you sit down, Father Wisdom?’ Rathbourne indicated the window seat. ‘But, first things first, Hugh. You see, Father Wisdom, we must be careful. These are strange times. A country divided. It’s important to know who is a friend and who is not.’
Clement glanced around the faces, a sense of unease growing rapidly. ‘I’m not really sure what you’re talking about Father Rathbourne.’ Clement placed the glass on a nearby table.
‘Not drinking, Father?’ Hugh asked, the young man’s eyes fixed on him.
‘We all like to mix with those of similar beliefs. It’s human nature, don’t you think?’ Rathbourne went on. The two expressionless young men by the fireplace hadn’t moved.
‘I’ve never really thought about it. But perhaps that is not a Christian sentiment, Father Rathbourne. After all, we are all instructed to love our neighbour, as well as our enemies.’
‘So you are sympathetic to the Germans?’ Rathbourne pressed.
Clement’s gaze shifted from Rathbourne to Armstrong and the two young men who, Clement decided, resembled carved stone dogs now standing on either side of the fireplace. He looked again at Rathbourne. The priest’s black eyes were fixed on him. He saw determination and something else; manipulative cunning. Clement glanced at Armstrong. There Clement saw wide-eyed, maniacal fanaticism. The two young men seemed impassive to everything. Clement thought quickly before speaking. ‘I have nothing against the individual. It’s the government who has deceived.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself!’ Rathbourne said, walking towards Clement but not looking at him. In fact, Clement thought Rathbourne was looking out the window.
Clement reached for the whisky. Rathbourne, Clement decided, not Armstrong was in charge. But what relationship existed between them? Clement flicked a glance at the two young men who remained impassive beside the fireplace, like a pair of andirons. Clement was in no doubt that they would do whatever Rathbourne instructed without a moment’s hesitation.
Rathbourne turned, his gaze shifting from the window back to the room. ‘Perhaps you should come to lunch? And you can meet others who share our opinions?’
Clement saw Armstrong flick a wide-eyed glare at Rathbourne.
Clement stood. ‘As I’m new here in Cambridge, I’d be most honoured to be included in your group.’
Rathbourne smiled. ‘Tomorrow then? We meet at Caius. Shall we say noon?’
Clement walked towards the door. ‘Thank you. And thank you for the whisky.’
‘Hugh, see our guest out.’
Armstrong unlocked the door and held it wide. As Clement stepped into the stairwell he felt a sense of utter relief to be away. What had been Rathbourne’s purpose in inviting him? Clement didn’t know but it wasn’t to share opinions of any kind. Clement walked towards the porter’s lodge by the front door to the college. He flicked a glance up to the window of Rathbourne’s rooms. The curtains hadn’t been drawn and he could see Rathbourne and the others talking. He guessed he was the topic of their conversation. As he approached the porter’s lodge, he nodded to Old Bill. ‘I need to go out for half an hour. I won’t be late.’
‘A moment if you will. May I offer a word of advice?’ Bill Hayward said almost in a whisper.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve been here a long time, Reverend Wisdom.’ Hayward hesitated, his eyes flicking around. ‘Whatever it is you’re up to, just be careful. The walls here have eyes as well as ears.’
Clement smiled and left the lodge, closing the heavy main door behind him. He hurried away. It had been a strange evening, and now Bill Hayward had thought it necessary to warn him about something.
Clement pulled his coat around him. Trinity Lane was dark now, the high stone walls on either side towering over him. A chill breeze wrapped around him, his footsteps echoing on the cobbles. Or were there more than just his footsteps? Turning, he saw he was alone in the lane. He stopped and listened. ‘You’re imagining things,’ he whispered to himself. Despite this, he hurried on, turning right at the top into King’s Parade. A cool, cloudless night had descended and a half moon now illuminated King’s College Chapel. Before turning left into Bene’t Street, he waited in a doorway. Bill Hayward’s words of warning were ringing in his ears. Why had it so unnerved him? Clement shook his head; imagined ghosts where there are none. A few minutes later Clement went to the side door of The Eagle where Reg had told him he had a room and taking the stairs to the upper floor, knocked on Reg’s door.
‘Clement! What’s happened?’
‘I’m not sure, Reg. Something’s not right. Rathbourne is definitely involved and guess who I met this evening?’ Clement didn’t wait for Reg to answer. ‘Hugh Armstrong.’
‘So what’s the game?’
‘Unsure. But Rathbourne appears to be in charge. Even Old Bill the college porter told me the walls there have eyes and ears, so he knows more than he’s letting on. Depending on his leanings, he could be a good source, if needed. But…’ Clement paused. He scratched his head. ‘Hayward’s frightened. It’s more than just the old members of the Right Club socialising. Something’s happening.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘None. Armstrong referred to leadership. If it was just an old network getting together over drinks, why the enigmatic conversations? And why would they try to involve me?’
‘Do you think they suspect you?’
‘I’ve given them no cause to.’
‘Perhaps you should move out, Clement.’
‘Not yet. I’ll have lunch with them tomorrow at Caius and let you know. Perhaps we should meet more frequently.’
‘Come to The Eagle after the lunch. We’ll work out a plan then. But I’ll keep an eye out for you anyway. I have a few new skills not even you know about.’
Clement left by the rear access to the lane and took byways to get back to college. He tried the front door and found it locked as he’d expected. Taking his set of keys from his coat pocket, he opened the door, entered and relocked it. As he passed the porter’s lodge, he could see Old Bill hunched at his desk.
Chapter 11
Thursday 5th June 1941
He’d overslept. Checking the time, he dressed quickly and hurried towards Hall hopeful of making it in time for breakfast. The college was a frenzy of activity. Huddles of students clustered in hushed conversation. Clement walked past a group with intense expressions and pale complexions. He quickened his stride. Staring at each student as he passed, he saw wide-eyed incredulity, or was it fear on their faces? Beyond Hall, across Front Court and standing by the main entrance to college was a police constable. Standing outside the porter’s lodge, Clement could see a group of men standing around the main door. The Master was there, speaking to Sergeant Kendall. Ahead, Clement saw Morris talking to the police pathologist Clement recognised from the police station. Clement hung back a little, not wanting to make eye contact with Morris or Kendall. Behind them, Clement could see a body was lying on a stretcher covered with a shroud.
‘What’s happened?’ Clement whispered to Paul Edwards, the porter on duty.
Paul was ashen-faced. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. Bill’s been here for over forty years! He’s been killed! Shot in the chest! Point-blank! Who would do such a thing?’
‘This is dreadful news! What have the police said?’
‘They think it could have been an attempted burglary. It can’t be. Nothing appears to be out of place. Nothing’s taken that I can see.’ Edwards shook his head. ‘Apparently his wallet is still in his pocket, so it can’t have been theft, can it? Who would want to hurt Old Bill?’
Clement and Edwards stood to one side as the pathologist left with the body of Bill Hayward which was being trolleyed out by the two mortuary attendants from the police station.
Clement glanced across at Morris. In view of Bill’s warning, for Clement, it wasn’t so much who had killed Hayward as why. He left Edwards and walked towards Morris. ‘Excuse me, Inspector. Can you tell me what has happened?’
‘You are?’ Morris asked.
‘Reverend Clement Wisdom, I’m doing some research here at college,’ he said, relieved that Morris was keeping up the pretence.
‘And it’s Superintendent Morris, not Inspector. I understand you are recently arrived here at college, Reverend Wisdom?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
Morris checked a notebook. ‘You had drinks in Father Rathbourne’s rooms last night, after Evensong, I understand, around ten o’clock? What time did you return to your own accommodation?’
‘About half past ten.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘As I saw no one after leaving Father Rathbourne’s ro
oms, I suppose not.’
‘My pathologist says Mr Hayward was killed between ten and midnight. Without an alibi, I’ll need to speak to you further. Noon. At the police station. And, Reverend Wisdom, don’t leave Cambridge.’
‘Of course. But after I left Father Rathbourne’s rooms, I saw no one.’
‘That doesn’t bode well for you then, does it?’
Clement watched Morris go about the routine questions. He stood in the covered walkway outside the lodge. The crowd that had gathered there gradually dispersed. He wanted to check the lodge himself but he knew that would have to wait until Edwards was alone. Clement thought about Morris knowing he had been in Rathbourne’s rooms last night. Rathbourne must have told Morris as Clement felt sure Hugh Armstrong would not have come forward. Clement’s mind returned to the old porter. Was his death connected to the warning? If so, his remarks had been overheard. Or was it as Edwards had said; an attempted burglary that had gone horribly wrong? Clement turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. The Master was walking briskly towards Edwards. ‘I have telephoned McBryde and asked him to come in, Edwards. In view of your friendship with the deceased, I think it would be best for you to go home for the remainder of today.’
‘Thank you, Master. I’d be grateful,’ Edwards replied.
‘Excuse me, Master,’ Clement interrupted. ‘As I am a clergyman and currently residing here at Trinity Hall, perhaps I could stand in until Mr McBryde arrives?’
‘That is most generous. Thank you Reverend Wisdom.’
‘Just happy to help, Master.’
By late morning, Clement was finally alone and able to close the lodge door. He stared into the room as though seeing it for the first time. If it had been an attempted burglary, the thief hadn’t disturbed much. Did that mean the burglar had broken into the lodge for something specific? Had whatever it was been found? If not, would he return? But why kill Bill Hayward? Clement wanted to see the body but until midday, all he could do was conjecture. His eyes scanned the room tracing every ledge and shelf. There was no evidence of a struggle. In Clement’s opinion, Hayward’s death had all the elements of an assassination. Swift and calculated, Hayward had been shot at his desk with no time to stand or protest before his killer fired the weapon. Clement thought back to the previous night. He had spoken to Hayward around ten, then gone out, returning around eleven. He’d seen Hayward hunched over the desk on his return. He hadn’t thought twice about it, believing Hayward was writing up the daily log or perhaps had fallen asleep. Was it possible the man was already dead by the time Clement returned to college; killed in the hour after he left and before he returned? Or was it later? If anyone had witnessed Clement leaving the college by the front gate, he knew he would be the prime suspect. He thought again about Rathbourne. The priest had told Morris about the drinks, but not that he’d seen Clement leave college. Did that mean Rathbourne had not seen his departure?