‘Then why don’t the Catholics believe it? I tell you why, because they believe the trial was politically motivated. They believe she was framed. Maybe they have a point. That’s for the historians to discover.’
‘How then can we tell what is true, sir?’ Felsted demanded as he poured the tea.
‘By thinking,’ Wilde said. ‘And by challenging the books you read. By getting dusty in archives. By listening to the evidence of archaeologists and palaeontologists. By using your eyes and ears and brains. And most of all by doubting everything I tell you until you have proved it for yourself.’
The two young men exchanged glances, discomfited. Teachers did not like to be doubted. That wasn’t the way the world worked. They would never have dared question their teachers at school.
‘Argue with me!’ Wilde insisted. ‘Make me prove my points, demand evidence, get as near the truth as you can. Re-examine everything you have ever been told and make your own mind up on the evidence you can find. And if there is not enough evidence, then keep an open mind. Become a detective – because if you don’t, you’ll never become a historian.’
Wilde hoped the talk had done the trick. He used it with all undergraduates and it usually worked, even though it undermined the very foundation of everything they had understood up until then. He looked at the two young men sitting uncertainly on his sofa and felt sorry for them. They needed reassuring. He sipped his tea, then opened his desk drawer and took out an object wrapped in a fragment of cloth. From the cloth he removed a piece of tar-blackened wood, about six inches by three. Without a word he handed it to Maxwell. The young man frowned at it, turned it this way and that, a puzzled look on his face.
‘Give it to Felsted.’
Felsted looked equally bemused.
‘Well, what do you think it is?’
‘A bit of driftwood?’ Felsted suggested.
‘Not bad. Maxwell?’
‘Looks like a chip off a railway sleeper to me.’
‘No. Well, I’ll tell you.’ He took the wood back from Felsted. ‘This old hunk of wood is perhaps the most thoughtful present I have ever received. It was given to me two years ago by one of my first undergraduates here at Cambridge. It’s a piece of the Golden Hind, the ship in which Sir Francis Drake sailed around the world, and the cloth in which it is kept is a scrap of sailcloth from the same vessel.’
‘How can you tell, sir?’
‘Because it had been in his family for three hundred and fifty years. When the Golden Hind returned home, it was brought up on to dry land at Deptford, and became a huge tourist attraction. Unfortunately, everyone wanted to take home a souvenir – and they cut pieces off the hull, the sails and the rigging until the ship fell apart. This is one of those pieces. The rest are probably all lost or forgotten in attics and cellars. Gentlemen, you have just held a piece of history in your hands. That piece of wood was part of only the second ship to circumnavigate the globe.’
‘Shouldn’t it be in the British Museum, professor?’
Wilde wrapped the wood in the sailcloth and put it back in the drawer. ‘I don’t know, Maxwell, but perhaps you’re right. My feeling at the moment, however, is that it serves more purpose here in this room. I think of it as a time machine, which can transport scholars like yourselves back to the sixteenth century. Anyway, that’s where you are now, so let’s start talking about that other Sir Francis – Walsingham.’
The hour passed quickly. Maxwell and Felsted were more attentive than they had been in weeks past and they desisted from their usual pastime of baiting each other about politics. At the end of the supervision, Wilde set them a task for the Christmas vacation: ‘Like Hitler and Stalin, Walsingham used torture as a tool of statecraft. I won’t ask you whose side he would have been on today, because I think I know what your answers would be. But I will ask you whether his use of torture helped his cause or hindered it. Remember what he said to Lord Burghley: without the use of torture, I know we shall not prevail. Well, we know with the benefit of hindsight that he did prevail – but was that thanks to the use of torture, or despite it? I want your answers, clearly argued, at the beginning of the Lent term. And put a bit of effort in.’
The two young men got to their feet and struggled into their coats. On their way out, Felsted popped his head back round the door. ‘That piece of wood, sir,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’ve only got your word for its provenance, haven’t we?’
Wilde could not suppress a smile and a light chuckle. At last, they were beginning to think. He gathered his papers together and switched off the desk lamp. The truth was he had no proof that the wood had come from the Golden Hind, and nor did he care; he liked the story. Not for the first time, it had had an effect on students whose minds were elsewhere. ‘There’s hope for you yet, Felsted,’ he said.
*
On his way out Wilde looked in on Bobby. ‘That Scotch? Just leave the bottle on my desk, if you would.’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, and professor, don’t forget that tip I gave you.’
‘Winter Blood?’
‘Ten to one if you get on early.’
Wilde laughed. ‘You know I’m not a gambling man, Bobby.’
‘This is easy money, Mr Wilde, trust me.’
‘Very well. Put me down for five shillings.’ He dug into his pocket and handed over two florins and a shilling.
‘I’ll do half a crown each way. That way you’ll make a profit even if it comes second or third.’
‘I thought you said it was certain to win.’
‘Horses are only human, professor. Things can always go wrong.’
Outside, in the old court, the smoke of the town had gathered and was swirling in a mist, closing down light and sound. The paving underfoot was wet. A group of undergraduates hurried past him. In the grey, foggy light their billowing black gowns made them look like bats. A little electric light spilled from the college windows and lit the way through into the new court. With its high golden stonework, its arches and spires, a little over a hundred years old, it was designed to impress. Wilde preferred the more modest contours and ingrained history of the older court; the beating heart of the college.
*
The sherry, a fragrant oloroso, was ready in its decanter. A dozen or more glasses, polished to a shine, were laid out at one end of the long oak table that dominated the Combination Room. This was where the fellows met to socialise or to discuss important college matters.
It was a stately room, with a high ceiling on which the college arms were emblazoned in bas relief. The walls were encased in fine panelling that had been fitted in the days of Bloody Mary. It was said that one of the panels concealed a tunnel that led down to the landing stage at the river, near the King’s mill, for a swift escape. No one was quite sure whether it had been a getaway for Protestant fellows during Mary’s days or Catholics in Elizabeth’s long reign.
Horace Dill grinned as he slouched across the room, smoke belching from his cigar like the funnel of a liner. ‘Well, well, it’s the brilliant and devilishly handsome Tom Wilde! To what do we owe this pleasure?’
‘Why, Horace, I wanted to imbibe your wit and choke to death on your cigar smoke.’
‘Come on, Tom. A team of six horses wouldn’t normally be able to drag you here to take sherry with us lesser mortals.’
‘Well, if you must know, Sawyer’s asked me to meet him. And I can assure you there is no pleasure involved.’
‘What on earth does he want?’
‘It’s a mystery to me.’
‘Sherry?’
‘No, thank you, Horace.’
Dill took a sip from his own glass. ‘Sawyer is a filthy runt and you can tell him so from me.’
‘I suspect he already knows your opinion. Anyway, he’s just come in. Off you go, Horace. Go and annoy someone else.’
Dill laughed. ‘Up your scabby middle-class arse, Tom.’
‘Up yours, too, Horace.’
‘You know why I like you, Wilde? Because no one else doe
s. On which thought, I’ll leave you to the Nazi’s tender mercies.’
As Dill edged away, Sawyer appeared in front of Wilde.
‘Ah, Professor Wilde, a rare appearance. Good of you to come. Have you got a glass? Can I pour you one?’
‘No, thank you, Dr Sawyer.’
‘No? Well, bottoms up anyway.’ Sawyer held up his own glass and sipped, then nodded appreciatively. ‘Glad something good still comes out of Spain.’
‘You wanted to speak to me.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. The bursar thought you should be brought on board. Wanted your support. Asked me to have a word with you.’
‘And why couldn’t he have had a word himself?’
Sawyer smiled. He was a distinguished-looking man with a hint of steely grey in his sideburns. He had a rowing blue from Oxford, had played tennis in the early rounds at Wimbledon, won races at Cowes week, was known as a fair boxer, and had been mentioned in dispatches for a daring action in Mesopotamia in the last year of the war. His subject was German literature and it was said he was a man destined for great things. Wilde had always felt there was something missing in him. A soul perhaps.
‘He was called away to London. I believe his father’s ill. Asked me to carry on without him. So here we are.’
Wilde waited. He did not spend more time than necessary in the Combination Room. The sherry, the cigars, the port and the undrinkable coffee were all bad enough, but it was the college politics, the tittle-tattle and whispers that he most disliked.
Duncan Sawyer, of course, was already proving himself a master in the art of college politics. Like Wilde, he was a man in his late thirties. He had been elected a fellow two years ago, not long after Wilde’s own arrival, and was already thought to be in line for the position of senior tutor when the incumbent moved on in the summer. Sawyer had been a favourite of the old master, Sir Norman Hereward; their politics, both in and out of college, were perfectly aligned. They were both good friends of Sir Oswald Mosley and Lord Londonderry. But even though Hereward had retired, very little had changed for Sawyer; anyone who imagined the old man’s absence would harm the younger man’s prospects had been wide of the mark. Sawyer was thriving and set for great things. Perhaps a safe seat in the Commons and, if his pal Mosley continued on his upward trajectory, possibly a Cabinet post, and maybe eventually the mastership of the college itself. No hint of doubt or scandal ever threatened the charmed life of Duncan Sawyer.
‘Will you be joining us at High Table?’ Sawyer asked.
‘No, not this evening.’
‘And yet you are required to do so three times a week. Once would be a start.’
‘Well, there we are.’
Wilde was well aware that some of the other fellows were put out that he avoided dining in Hall. ‘Not clubbable,’ was one phrase he had overheard. ‘Not quite one of us.’ Or the more straightforward ‘bloody Yank.’ He was indifferent.
Sawyer put down his glass and took a cigarette from his case. He didn’t bother to offer it to Wilde.
‘Do you know Peter Slievedonard, Wilde?’
‘Lord Slievedonard? I know of him. I read the papers. But we haven’t met.’
‘Well, you’ll be aware that he is exceedingly wealthy. Did you also know that he has a home not far from Cambridge?’
‘I imagine he has homes all over the world.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. One in Berkshire, a villa on the Riviera, a place in Knightsbridge and an estate in the Hamptons. Oh, and an estate near Bayreuth, I believe. The point is, he has strong connections with the college and wishes to endow us with a generous benefaction, in the form of a scholarship. To be precise, a history scholarship, which is where you come in. In addition, there will be a handsome sum set aside for us to spend as we choose. It is a most wonderful offer, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘You’re not a fool, Sawyer. The man’s a Nazi – or at the very least a Nazi sympathiser.’
Sawyer maintained his smile. He was perhaps a shade under six feet, with a pugilist’s powerful physique. A middleweight, Wilde reckoned. It would be an interesting match. A love of boxing was, perhaps, the only thing they had in common.
‘I rather feared you would say that, but hear me out. Peter’s son was here studying history under the supervision of your predecessor. He had just finished Part I, with a first, when he enlisted. He died on the Somme. Lord Slievedonard wishes to endow a scholarship named in his honour.’
‘That is admirable, Sawyer, but Slievedonard’s politics do not sit well with the traditions of this great institution. The college would be permanently tainted by such an association. Do your own political leanings blind you to such considerations?’
Sawyer sighed and ran a large hand across his elegantly curling hair. ‘You are being tiresome, Wilde. The British Union of Fascists, which Slievedonard supports as do I, is a perfectly legitimate political party. It’s not as if he’s a damned Commie like Horace Dill and his chums. This is not about politics, but the good of the college, a fine opportunity for scholars, both now and in the years to come. We cannot allow personal prejudices to get the better of us to the detriment of the college. Such opportunities are few and far between.’
‘Good evening to you, Sawyer.’
Sawyer’s mask of politeness slipped. ‘We don’t need your permission for this, you know, Wilde. It’s simply that the bursar and the master were anxious that there be a consensus among the fellows. As a history don, they were particularly keen to secure your support.’
‘Well, they and you don’t have it.’
‘As you wish. But you will be overruled, Wilde. You will be the anvil to my hammer.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t quote bloody Goethe at me.’
‘You’re a bad lot, Wilde.’ Sawyer gave full reign to his vitriol. ‘Remind me – what exactly did you do in the war? Run back to America and hide? And don’t go telling me it’s because you’re American, because I know damned well your mother is Irish and I know, too, that you were at school here. What happened to those boys you were at school with?’
The room was almost full. They had raised their voices. They were making a scene, the ultimate Combination Room transgression. On the far side of the room, fat Horace Dill was watching them with evident pleasure. He grinned broadly at Wilde, gave him an exaggerated wink through his thick bottled spectacles and blew out a cloud of smoke. So Wilde had one friend to stand against Sawyer. The question was: did he really want or need the allegiance of a man like Horace Dill?
*
Fifty miles away, in another fine old room, three men were meeting over a decanter of brandy. They were in the long room of one of London’s premier gentlemen’s clubs. A fire blazed in the wide hearth, but they had chosen to seat themselves in the quietest corner, by one of the tall, curtained windows looking out over Pall Mall. They were important men in the life of the nation, a general attached to the War Office, a landowner with thirty thousand acres in the West Country and a senior civil servant in the Foreign Office. None of them was ambitious for himself. None of them had need of more money or property.
Their families had been close for generations and they had known and liked each other since early childhood. They had been at prep school together, then Eton – same house – and Cambridge, where they had all won blues and Firsts. All had served in Flanders in the same regiment. It was only after the war that their paths had diverged into different careers. And yet they met often, both in London and at shoots and meets. When one was invited to a house party, the others tended to be there, too.
Their trust in each other was absolute; their views on Great Britain and its place in the world almost identical, though none of them considered themselves British exactly. They were English. Old English. And their loyalty was simple and inviolable. First came King, then country, then each other.
It was the first of these loyalties that had brought them together this evening: the threat to the King from the prime minister and those in the Cabinet who were tr
ying to force him to abdicate if he refused to give up Mrs Wallis Simpson, the love of his life.
‘So we are agreed?’ the landowner said. ‘I call Cambridge?’
The Foreign Office man nodded slowly. ‘Baldwin is implacable. He’s not even lukewarm to the idea of a morganatic marriage and believes the King must go. I was with him yesterday and he really means to proceed with this madness, which means we have no option. We have all sworn an oath of allegiance to Edward and an oath is an oath. But time is not on our side.’
‘This morganatic idea?’ the general said. ‘Surely it would be acceptable if she became Duchess of Cornwall but not queen.’
‘Baldwin says he’s consulting the Dominions on the matter, but it’ll be a fix.’
The landowner shook his head. ‘Our friends in Munich are certain that Baldwin is about to force an abdication. It’s a bloody palace coup! Baldwin should be shot for treason. We must protect the King. He is our only hope for peace.’ He paused, then, ‘Sophie called. She has been talking to Munich and is at our disposal.’
‘And Munich will play its part?’ the general asked, stroking his moustache. ‘Because Nordsee can’t do this alone. And we three cannot be implicated.’
‘The Germans already have it under way. Edward is their best hope of avoiding war. They want to work with us, not against us. Edward is like-minded, of course, as is von Ribbentrop and, indeed, the Führer himself. All we have to do is ensure Nordsee is in place, and wait. The Reds will be blamed, of course.’
‘Germany should have talked to us first.’
‘Things don’t work that way in Berlin and Munich these days.’
‘I’ll call Cambridge,’ the landowner repeated. ‘I’ll keep in touch with Sophie.’
‘Of course.’
The general raised his forefinger to summon the steward. ‘I think we need more brandy,’ he said.
CHAPTER 4
The butler entered the Combination Room and announced that dinner was served, and the fellows began their slow, shuffling progress in the short step to the less intimate grandeur of the Hall and High Table. Outside, the bell was clanging, and the students made their way from their rooms and studies and the library, across the chilly court to the scarcely warmer hall, where they found their tables and waited for Grace to be said.
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