Corpus

by Rory Clements

  She had warned her often enough. Everyone had. She had wanted to change the world, to slough off the Victorian gloom of England, to break down borders and barriers. She had burned too bright and it had killed her. The bile rose in Lydia’s throat and she turned away.

  CHAPTER 5

  The telephone was ringing in the hall. Wilde tried to ignore it. On the gramophone, Bessie Smith was singing, her voice as sweet as raw molasses. The gas fire was throwing out an oppressive heat that scorched his knees. Reluctantly, he rose from his armchair, put down his novel, turned off the fire, made his way to the hall and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Professor Wilde?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Sergeant O’Brien, Cambridge police.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Would you mind coming down to the station on St Andrew’s Street, sir? We’re right by the fire station, if you know it.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘It would be easier to explain when you arrive. Miss Lydia Morris has asked for you. She’s not hurt and nor is she in any trouble but we think it would be best if she had a friend with her.’

  *

  As he hurried down Jesus Lane, Wilde couldn’t get the Bessie Smith song out of his head. It had been sounding all evening and he hadn’t been able to concentrate on his novel. Whenever he read Waugh, he found himself thinking how very odd the English were. Particularly the English upper classes. Mr Beaver, Lady Cockpurse, Lady Chasm . . . Who were these people? What did they represent?

  He had his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Not cold enough for snow or skating perhaps, but winter – real winter – couldn’t be far off. Now he was in St Andrew’s Street. Through the smoke-scented fog, the hazy blue light over the police station was an icy harbinger.

  Wilde had never liked this building. Soot-blackened, monolithic and intimidating, it was four storeys high, broad-fronted and just as deep. He entered through an arched double doorway, carved in thick oak with discs and panels that seemed designed to suggest the iron bolts and straps on a cell door. Enter at your peril. Even the windows, with their heavy lead latticework, spoke of prison bars.

  What on earth had Lydia got herself into?

  She was standing by the front desk, wrapped deep into her capacious duffle coat. Her eyes were haunted and her cheeks were drawn, and smudged with tears. Wilde couldn’t imagine Lydia weeping. Or calling on him for assistance, for that matter.

  ‘What’s happened, Lydia?’ He spoke gently.

  ‘The bloody sergeant insisted on calling my husband. Well, as you know, I haven’t got a sodding husband, and you were the closest thing to a friend I could think of. Nancy’s dead. I found her body.’

  *

  Back home, she told him she couldn’t be alone. Not tonight.

  ‘I thought your coalminer friend Braithwaite was still here.’

  She threw him a contemptuous look.

  ‘I’ll sleep on your sofa then.’

  ‘Would you? I know it’s a lot to ask. Mr Braithwaite locks himself away in his room.’

  Wilde nodded. When the miner first arrived, she had defended him to Wilde. ‘He’s not so bad, you know.’ He had been doubtful. ‘Perhaps not, Lydia, but don’t be too trusting. One day one of your good deeds might bite you.’

  She brought out the whisky bottle and they sat together in the kitchen, facing each other across the table, a glass each. ‘The police won’t have it that it’s anything but an accidental overdose or suicide,’ she said, voice still shaky.

  She was repeating herself. They had been through all this on the way back from the station. And from what she said, it seemed the police had reached the obvious conclusion. A known addict is found dead in her own bed, her syringe at her side. The front door locked. Case closed. The only remaining question would be decided by the coroner: accident or suicide?

  ‘I think she was killed.’ Lydia continued.

  ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘What she said.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Lydia sighed. ‘She telephoned me, said she wanted to go to the cinema. Said she wanted to see me so we could talk.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I can remember the exact words. She said, “I think I’ve upset someone.” I asked her who and all she said was, “I’ll tell you about it.” I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about, who she was talking about. Her voice was fading, Tom. All she said was, “Later.” But there wasn’t any later.’ Lydia sniffed. Wilde passed over his handkerchief and she blew hard.

  ‘Did you tell the police about the call?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think was worrying her? You knew her better than anyone, Lydia – you must have had some idea about her concerns.’

  ‘Her political friends, I suppose.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh God, I might as well tell you what I think, but you’ll probably decide I’m unhinged.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, you know we went to Berlin together in August? She was pretty worried that the German authorities might get wind of her politics before she even got there and bar her at the border. They didn’t, but the thing is, I’m pretty sure she did some secret work for the party while she was there.’

  ‘The communists?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She was being awfully odd the whole trip. But it came to a bit of a head when we went into the centre of town to go shopping together. After a while she said she wanted to go off and explore on her own. We agreed to meet at a café half an hour later, but she was gone a lot longer than that, and when she eventually turned up she was a nervous wreck, but rather excited, too, as though she had done something clever. And when I asked her where she’d been, she wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Have you told the police this?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I tried to, but they weren’t very receptive. They seemed to think I was imagining things. In fact, I saw them smirking at each other when they thought I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Well, I’m not laughing, Lydia. But your Berlin trip was months ago.’

  She lowered her eyes, then held her head in her hands, looking down into the amber depths of her whisky. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘The police surgeon has already said he has no reason to believe Nancy died of anything but an overdose, and the other officers took no notice of Mr Bromley next door when he said he’d heard some sort of cry. They said it could have been anything . . .’ She trailed off miserably. ‘And I suppose they’re right about that.’

  Wilde knew Nancy from college, but not well. They had passed the time of day once or twice and he was aware of her reputation as Hereward’s wayward daughter, but the former master was not a man with whom Wilde had ever seen eye to eye, and he had rarely been invited to the master’s lodge. There had been fleeting meetings at Lydia’s house, and his instinct had been to like Nancy and be amused by her, but she lacked Lydia’s warmth.

  ‘When did she start using heroin?’ he asked.

  ‘It began about a year ago, not long after the scandal broke. She was full of it at first, urged me to try it. Said it was better than making love, better than alcohol. I wouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘Where did she get it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. I really don’t know. Nancy was never afraid to go where I wouldn’t like to tread. The Pikeling, perhaps? They say you can get anything there if you have the money.’ Lydia sighed heavily, her eyelids drooping. ‘Oh God, I think I’m done for.’

  ‘Finish your drink. Let’s talk more in the morning. It will make more sense then. You need sleep, Lydia. Go to bed.’

  She got up from the table and turned her exhausted face to him. ‘She said something else, too, Tom. She said she’d had a call from Margot.’

  ‘Do I know Margot?’

  ‘No. She was at Girton with us. We did ev
erything together in those days. But it’s a strange thing. No one’s heard from her in eighteen months. She got married in rather a hurry and then she ran off – she was always a bit wild – but none of us heard from her after that and we rather thought she must be lying low somewhere. But I would have thought Nancy would have been the last person she wanted to talk to because they fell out badly.’ Lydia paused, aware she was rambling.

  ‘This isn’t meaning much to me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No matter. It’s not important. I’ll tell you about it some other time, perhaps. Oh God, I’m so tired, but I don’t think I can sleep.’

  She went off to fetch him blankets for the sofa, then went to her room. A little later, she returned and climbed onto the sofa beside him, fully clothed save for her shoes, clinging to his back without a word. She was still there when he woke in the morning.

  WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 2, 1936

  Chapter 6

  They slept fitfully and the night left them drained. Dawn came so late in winter. Wilde lay with his eyes open.

  ‘I hardly slept,’ Lydia said. ‘I wish I hadn’t slept at all.’

  ‘You have to sleep.’

  ‘I had a dream, Tom. I was trying to fly, out of a maelstrom, but it was pulling me down. It wasn’t water, it was a huge, jagged wound, full of swirling, silvery-red blood. I woke and shook you; you just grunted and tried to move away.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to interpret that dream, Lydia. Even Herr Freud wouldn’t put that one down to your parents.’

  *

  They ate breakfast together in her kitchen.

  Lydia pushed away her toast, barely nibbled. ‘Pour me another coffee, Tom.’ She paused to gather her strength. ‘I’d like to go back to the house today to see how the police are getting on. Do you think you could come with me? Maybe,’ she added bitterly, ‘you could persuade them to take me seriously. They might listen to a man.’

  Wilde smiled. ‘They might,’ he said. He thought for a moment. ‘Can you tell me how she was lying when you found her?’

  ‘Oh God, did I not tell you? She was lying on the bed, her head on the pillow, to one side. Her left hand was trapped beneath her, her right fingers were stretched out like talons, clutching at something. And her stupid silver syringe. She thought it was so bloody special. God knows where she got the thing. Oh, Tom, it was all so cold and sordid. I wanted to be sick. Her face was blank. No fear, no serenity. Nothing. She just wasn’t there.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ She looked at him uncertainly, then corrected herself. Tom Wilde had suffered more than his share of tragedy. ‘Sorry. Of course you do.’

  ‘Tell me about her. I didn’t know her well.’ He had no wish to hark back to the pain of his own past.

  ‘She was the brightest of us, the best. We all wanted to change the world and make it a better place, but she was really trying to do something about it. That’s why she wanted to get into newspapers – so she could write about what she saw. She was planning to go to Abyssinia, to Spain, to China. She wanted to tell the truth. Did you read that article she wrote on the new Germany?’

  He nodded. It had been slightly naive, he thought. Full of sound and fury, but lacking sophistication in its depiction of the harsh reality of German daily life hidden behind the glittering Olympic facade. Not quite there for the big newspapers, and so it had ended up in a small, left-wing publication with a circulation that numbered in the hundreds rather than the millions she wished to reach.

  The kitchen door opened and Leslie Braithwaite appeared. ‘Morning.’ He caught sight of Wilde. ‘Fancy you being here, Mr Wilde.’ He grinned.

  Lydia tried to smile, but it was unconvincing. ‘Good morning, Mr Braithwaite.’

  ‘I heard noises in the night. Like the pattering of little feet. Wonder what that could be? You got mice, Miss Morris?’

  They ignored him and he approached the kitchen table and looked at the toast rack. ‘Any of that for me?’ Without waiting for a reply, he took a slice and bit into it. ‘Be a good girl, make us a cuppa.’

  ‘The toast wasn’t for you,’ snapped Lydia. ‘And if you want a cup of tea, you can make a pot yourself.’

  He took another bite. ‘Coffee’ll do.’

  ‘When are you leaving, Mr Braithwaite?’

  Wilde was surprised by her sharpness. However much her patience was tried, it was unlike Lydia to show it. Sometimes it seemed her sense of charity and social justice knew no bounds. Not today.

  ‘Thought I’d go in a day or two. Bit too chilly for walking this morning.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a train ticket to East Kent,’ Lydia said tersely. ‘That will see you on your way. Think of it as an early Christmas present.’

  ‘Very generous of you, miss. But I’ve one or two things to do before I go.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘This and that. Meet some comrades maybe. There’s NUWM organising to be done.’ Braithwaite touched his cap. ‘Power to the workers, eh? Thanks again but I’ll not take you up on the offer. I’m going down the caff. If you could loan us a tanner I’ll be able to have some bread and dripping, too.’

  *

  At college, Wilde sought out Bobby. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Bobby, but where would someone get hold of dope in this town?’

  Bobby raised an eyebrow. ‘Dope, professor? Not sure I know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Heroin. Diamorphine. Not for me, I hasten to add – think of it as a theoretical question.’

  ‘Ah well, yes, tricky one that.’ Bobby bared his toothless mouth and rubbed his chin. ‘The chemist would be the place, I imagine. Or the doctor’s.’

  ‘What if it was illegal? Would a man be able to buy the stuff in a bar, maybe? How about the Pikeling?’

  Bobby shook his head and grinned. ‘Get you a good second-hand wireless there, or some cheap whisky. Even French letters if you like – but never heard of demand for dope as you call it.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Bobby.’

  *

  Wilde sat astride the Rudge Special, opened the fuel tap, tickled the carburettor, closed the choke and applied the lever to retard ignition, then depressed the kickstart to feel for decompression. Satisfied, he released the decompressor and kicked hard. The motorbike’s 500cc engine spluttered then roared into life. Even on a December day she didn’t let him down, the beauty. He rode home and found Lydia ready in her coat at the gate, waiting for him.

  ‘Hop on,’ he said.

  ‘Is it safe?’ she demanded as she clambered aboard the pillion seat.

  ‘With me steering, what do you think?’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  They rode through Cambridge towards the suburb of Chesterton. It was almost midday. Outside Nancy’s house, Wilde pulled into the kerb just behind a black Rolls Royce, attended by a chauffeur in peaked cap and livery of grey, with gold braid. It was all so out of place in this modest road, with its rows of small bay-windowed houses. The front door to Nancy’s house was ajar and Lydia knocked. When there was no answer, she pushed the door open and peered into the front hall. Through the doorway on the left, she saw a man in his fifties, clean-shaven with thinning grey hair, sitting in an armchair next to the window. He was gazing at a silver-framed photograph he held in his hands. He did not look up at Lydia’s approach.

  ‘Sir Norman?’

  He raised his eyes from the picture but didn’t seem to recognise Lydia, although he knew her well.

  ‘I found her, sir.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I heard.’

  ‘You know Professor Wilde, of course.’

  Hereward’s eyes shifted vaguely in Wilde’s direction, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he turned the picture round so that it faced the two newcomers. It showed a strong, slim, dark-haired girl in running shorts, vest and spikes, standing on a hurdles track. She was holding up a silver trophy and smiling triumphantly. ‘This is my favourite picture. She was healthy then. In mind and body.’

  Tear
s were streaming down the man’s face but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He was incongruous in this small room, an Edwardian gentleman scholar in a Norfolk jacket sitting in a modest artisan’s dwelling. He held the photograph, taken years earlier at a school sports day, for them to see for a full minute, then turned it back so that he could gaze at his daughter again. He kissed the picture and then put it on the arm of the chair, face down.

  Lydia went over and knelt in front of him on the worn boards and clasped his hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Sir Norman. She meant a great deal to me. I can hardly imagine what you are going through.’

  He seemed to be talking to himself. ‘The thing is, everything was all right when she was away at school. It all went wrong when she came up to Girton.’ With an effort he looked down at Lydia’s upturned face. ‘Well, you saw it, Lydia. You saw what happened, how it all began to fall apart.’

  Wilde had heard about Girton from Lydia. It was supposed to be as closely run as a prison ship. Girton women were meant to be as modest as nuns and as clever as Einstein. But that wasn’t how it had been for Nancy, Lydia and their friend Margot Langley. They certainly had brains to spare – indeed Wilde suspected they were far more intelligent than many of the male undergraduates who were at university simply because they had been to the right schools – but they were a long way from taking holy orders. And the whole thing – last year’s scandal – had been further complicated by Nancy’s father’s position as master of a great Cambridge college.

  ‘We’d had another row,’ Sir Norman said. ‘Did she tell you that? She told me she hated me and everything I stood for. I sent her a note the day before yesterday begging her to come for Christmas, but I knew she wouldn’t. Those people she ran with. That damned stuff she stuck in her arm. I wanted her to get help.’

  Lydia thought she had probably heard chapter and verse about the problems between father and daughter. It wasn’t just the heroin. It was the politics. Sir Norman was fervent in his hatred of Bolshevism; Nancy was a Marxist through and through.