‘Comrade Morris!’ Kholtov exclaimed. ‘I have been looking forward to meeting you. I am told I must thank you for your assistance.’
She held out her hand, but the Russian ignored it and put his hands to her face and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘It was very little, Mr Kholtov. Just a few fliers and leaflets.’ She tried to smile at him, but it was not convincing.
He took her hands. ‘Miss Morris, I have heard that your friend has just died. That is terrible.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘You have my heartfelt condolences.’
Lydia took a deep breath, pushed back her shoulders and smiled again. ‘When Professor Dill suggested this evening’s rally, I couldn’t believe it was possible, so I am both thrilled and surprised that you are here.’
‘Here’s the secret, Miss Morris. I have an ulterior motive – to recruit your finest young men and women for the struggle in Catalonia. But first a complaint: do you know they are saying there is no vodka here? What sort of country is this? A man could die of thirst.’ Kholtov laughed raucously – a laugh, like his voice, roughened by too many cheap cardboard-tube cigarettes. He bent his hands now round the one he had fixed in his mouth and lit it before discharging a spiral of smoke.
‘There is a bar. I am sure we will find something else to your taste, Comrade Kholtov.’
He turned to Wilde, who was standing at her side. ‘And who is this?’
‘Professor Wilde, my neighbour.’
‘Then if he is not your husband, there must still be hope for me.’ Kholtov laughed again and shook hands with Wilde. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, comrade.’
‘Mr Kholtov.’
‘Your accent. What do I detect? Not quite American, not quite British?’
‘Half American. The other half Irish.’
‘Aha, the general secretary has great hopes for the Irish. They have thrown off the English yoke, now they must complete their revolution. I assume you are a paid-up member of the party, Professor Wilde?’
‘Not yours, nor any other.’
‘Then I will persuade you otherwise. But first, a drink, yes? Without vodka what do you recommend?’
‘Scotch.’
‘Whisky is good. I shall have one. And Miss Morris, what will you drink?’
‘Whisky for me, too.’
‘I shall buy the bottle. A small fraternal offering from the great Soviet peoples.’
The air was thick with tobacco smoke, muted voices, the scraping of chairs being moved into place. It was a large, echoing space with a stage at one end, dominated by a central lectern, like the set-up for a school speech day. The hall had not seen a lick of paint since the turn of the century and the chairs were a job lot, many in need of repair. Dave Johnson had opened the doors and the room was filling up quickly. There was the possibility of trouble here, and not just belligerent heckling: Kholtov had his fair share of enemies.
‘Tell me, Mr Kholtov,’ Wilde said, ‘what have you been doing in Catalonia?’
‘Providing support for our friends against the fascist insurrection. You should join us. All right-thinking people are welcome.’
‘I mean you personally. What is your role?’
The Russian was putting his glass to his lips, but paused before drinking. ‘I am an adviser, professor. Nothing more.’ The glass resumed its journey to his mouth and he downed the double Haig in one shot. Then, without a pause, he poured himself another.
Wilde found himself wanting to push the man, for the hell of it. ‘I hear reports that Comrade Stalin’s team in Spain spends more time killing Trotsky’s people than General Franco’s.’
‘Then you have been listening to nonsense.’
‘So there has been no covert action, no assassinations, no abductions outside the Soviet Union?’
‘You have been listening to rumours, Professor Wilde. Rumours put about by the western capitalist press.’
‘I could name names, if you wish.’
Just for a moment it seemed to Wilde that the apparent good humour was about to vanish from Kholtov’s face. A flash of irritation, perhaps? But Kholtov kept smiling. ‘I am sure I could prove to your satisfaction that all the deaths of those wanted for trial in Moscow have been due to accidents or natural causes. But perhaps we will talk of it another time, professor. For the moment, I must prepare myself for tonight’s speech.’
‘And will an accident befall Comrade Trotsky in his Norwegian hideaway?’
‘Trotsky? I would happily put a Tokarev to his head and pull the trigger myself. He is a traitor to the revolution.’ Kholtov dropped his cigarette and used his well-worn heel to grind it into the floorboards. He took out another cigarette and stuck it, unlit, into the corner of his mouth. ‘Who have you been listening to?’ He smiled at Wilde, but it was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Wilde held his gaze. How many men and women had seen those eyes in the last seconds before the darkness descended?
‘I’m a professor of history,’ he said. ‘My subject is Elizabethan England and I have a special interest in the birth of the English secret service under Walsingham, but I like to keep up to date with modern intelligence methods. History is meaningless unless you discern how the past shapes the present. I am interested, for instance, in your AST.’
‘AST?’ Kholtov asked politely.
‘The Administration for Special Tasks. A division of the NKVD. They kidnap people and take them back to Moscow to be murdered in the Lubyanka prison, or they kill them where they are. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘No one is murdered in the Lubyanka. Is this some plot for a novel? Of course you’re wrong! The Soviet Union does not stoop to such tactics. We leave such things to the fascists, to Hitler, Franco and Mussolini. They are the enemies of the people. They are the criminal elements, Professor Wilde!’
Johnson elbowed his way towards them. ‘I think we’re about ready, Mr Kholtov.’
Wilde edged through the crowd to the back of the hall where he had spotted Horace Dill.
‘Evening, Tom. Didn’t know you’d joined the party.’
Kholtov was walking up to the lectern to deafening applause.
Wilde put his mouth close to Dill’s ear. ‘You knew Nancy Hereward pretty well, Horace, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did. It’s a desperate tragedy.’
‘Do you think she was murdered?’
‘Murdered?’ Dill gave Wilde a strange look through his thick glasses, then lifted his chin and exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘What’s this about, Tom?’
‘Just asking a few questions. The police have made up their minds, you see, but Lydia Morris is convinced it wasn’t a simple overdose.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Tom. Not now.’ Dill put a finger to his lips. ‘Sssh, the great man is about to speak.’
*
Kholtov began his speech with some scandalous allegations about well-known names in the Soviet Union and beyond.
‘So how did Natalya Sedova come to be with child when Lev Bronstein was in prison?’ he demanded rhetorically. ‘Are we to believe the sorry tale that she was allowed conjugal visits even though they were not married? Not credible, you will say. Which surely must mean that Trotsky was a cuckold and that little Lev junior was not a Bronstein? Who, then, was the true father?’
Kholtov went through a list of the big names of the Russian Revolution, with details of their supposed sexual preferences and the likelihood of them having fathered Trotsky’s first child. He was seeking laughter and familiarity, and it served him well: he kept his audience entranced. There were well-rehearsed anecdotes about Lenin and Krupskaya’s bedroom antics, the peccadillos of Kamenev and Zinoviev. But never about Comrade Stalin. Comrade Stalin didn’t appreciate humour at his expense. And word, inevitably, got back to him.
Bit by bit, the speech turned from titbits of scandal to the serious business of war and the people’s struggle. Kholtov spoke of Spain and the need for volunteers to fight aga
inst Franco and his Falangists. This was why he had travelled from Barcelona across France to England. ‘I know that many of the brightest and best among you are prepared to take up arms against the fascists. Some of your comrades are already with us. You will have heard of the new International Brigades. I am here to urge you to do your duty and join us. And I can promise every assistance if you need help in making your way to the front. We have routes and we have funds.’
Tom Wilde stood at the back of the hall, whisky in hand, listening intently. Kholtov was a persuasive speaker. At least a handful of those here this night would take his advice and go to Spain, risking lives cut short by a bullet in the brain or a jagged chunk of shrapnel in the gut. He could just make out Lydia at the front of the hall, standing close to the side of the stage, rapt.
‘What do you think, Professor Wilde?’
Wilde turned sharply at the unfamiliar voice in his left ear. An elegant young man in a light grey Savile Row suit stood next to him, hands in his trouser pockets.
‘Have we met?’
‘Philip Eaton. I’m a correspondent for The Times.’
‘And how do you know my name, Mr Eaton?’
Eaton laughed. ‘I’m a reporter. I make it my business to find things out. You are Professor Wilde, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I believe we share a common interest in the death of Nancy Hereward.’
Suddenly the thundering voice of Yuri Kholtov became nothing but a background murmur. ‘I had no idea the press had any interest in the story.’
‘Most of them don’t. It’s an accidental overdose. Shameful, perhaps, but suicide would be even worse. The father’s already suffered enough scandal with his daughter’s antics, so the press won’t touch it. Sir Norman has some powerful friends.’
‘So why is The Times interested?’
‘Won’t you allow me to buy you a drink, professor?’
CHAPTER 9
Philip Eaton handed Wilde his refreshed drink and proffered his cigarette case. When Wilde declined, he snapped the silver case shut and slid it back into his inside pocket without taking one for himself. ‘Frightful habit. I only keep them to hand out. Reporter’s trick. Cheers.’ He clinked glasses.
‘What makes you think I might be interested in the death of Nancy Hereward? Are you a friend of Sir Norman’s?’
‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘Then someone of his acquaintance? Horace Dill perhaps?’
Eaton smiled. ‘Let’s just say I do my homework. Now, may I ask you a question: what is your interest in the case?’
If this man wouldn’t give straight answers, Wilde’s inclination was to walk away. And yet he stayed. There was nothing to be lost by listening to him. He shrugged. ‘All right, Mr Eaton, it’s very simple. Lydia Morris, a friend of mine, has doubts about the death and the police have made their minds up. I suspect they’re right, in which case I want to prove to Lydia that this was just a tragic accident. No foul play. No murder. Just set her mind at rest.’
‘And what if it was murder? Good Lord, the idiotic girl had made enough enemies here, there and everywhere,’ he said.
‘You sound as though you knew her.’
‘I knew of her. Our paths never crossed, but as a former Trinity man I spend quite a lot of time up here and one hears things – you know, that story of three-in-a-bed with Nancy as the honey in the sandwich. And then, of course, her silver needle. All very fast for Cambridge. More Riviera or Happy Valley than Trumpington Street.’
By now they were standing in the yard behind the hall in the chilly evening air, the sound of Kholtov’s speech a distant hum.
‘So what makes you think there is something suspicious about her death?’
Eaton paused. ‘I think it had something to do with Berlin.’
‘Berlin?’ Wilde was careful not to reveal his surprise. ‘Then you’ve lost me. She went to the Olympics, but what could that possibly have to do with her death?’
‘I think she had an ulterior motive in making the trip.’
‘She was writing an article about the real Germany, behind all the salutes, the marching and the flags. Perhaps you read it.’
‘It was more than that. She had orders to do some covert work for the Comintern.’
Wilde didn’t respond. Berlin again. The missing hour that Lydia had spoken about. Suddenly, the whole affair of Nancy’s life and death had taken on a new dimension. This stranger had approached him as if he knew him and claimed to know the history of a young woman who had died little more than twenty-four hours earlier. How had he discovered so much and what had any of it to do with Thomas Wilde, professor of history, birdwatcher, motorcycle enthusiast and sometime amateur boxer?
There was something about Berlin; that was certain. Lydia had felt it and now so did Wilde. But the Comintern? Surely not.
‘You are not saying anything, professor.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I thought you might register surprise.’
‘Mr Eaton, if I don’t look surprised it might be because I can’t keep up with your vivid imagination. Or perhaps you do know something, in which case, tell me this: how does a humble Times reporter know all this?’
‘Do I really look humble, old boy?’
‘Anything but, Mr Eaton.’ Old boy. Philip Eaton had injected a mocking tone, but it was hardly convincing.
‘Look,’ Eaton continued. ‘I hear things.’
‘You sound like a spy.’
‘Oh, no more than the sort of things you hear, I’m sure. I’m told you like to call in at the American embassy when you’re in town. You must pick up some jolly good gossip there, I imagine. And you’re not a spy are you, Professor Wilde?’
‘Who told you about my embassy visits?’
‘I know people. I do my research. I have a lot of friends in Cambridge. Amazing, too, what you can pick up in a London club. My newspaper pays me to keep my ear close to the ground.’
Wilde was tired of the endless fencing. ‘So tell me what you want.’
‘I thought we could pool resources. Do the police’s work for them if you like. You can tell me what you and Miss Morris know of the dead girl and her movements. As things stand, there’s no chance of persuading either the police or the coroner that Nancy Hereward’s death was anything but an accident or suicide. Case closed as far as they’re concerned, but you’re beginning to have doubts.’
‘If you say so. But what is in it for you?’
‘A good story. The true tale of the murder of the girl with the silver needle. And you get some kind of justice for Miss Morris’s friend.’
Wilde didn’t believe him for a minute. Eaton was altogether too well informed for a reporter, even one who represented a publication as august as The Times. There was something more to him – and he intended to find out what it was. ‘So, Mr Eaton, what have you discovered so far?’
‘Isn’t the Comintern line enough? God knows what they were hoping she’d do in Berlin. I can’t imagine a young lady with a weakness for theoretical communism and heroin being given a pistol and told to shoot Hitler. So what was she up to?’
‘I still find it unfeasible that a newspaper reporter could have discovered such information.’
‘Up to you, Professor Wilde. You can work with me or not, as you please. For myself, I’ll be looking for whoever it was who sent her to Berlin in the first place. Once we know that, we might discover what she was doing.’
‘How will you find this elusive contact?’
‘Cambridge is infested with commies! I would hazard a guess that it’s one of the dons. They’re very happy to send impressionable young people off to do their dirty work in Germany and Spain, while they drink port in the Combination Room. It was ever thus. Old men sending off young men to die. Story of the Great War.’
‘You’re a cynic, Mr Eaton.’
Eaton raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’re not, Professor Wilde?’
‘So what will we do
when we identify this supposed Comintern agent?’
‘Get the truth out of him. Therein lies the clue to her death, I suspect. Do you have any idea who it might have been?’
Wilde didn’t hesitate. ‘None,’ he said shortly. Then he paused. If he was going to get anywhere with Eaton he would have to give him something. ‘Perhaps you should talk to Lydia?’
‘Ah, Miss Morris. Bit of a leftie herself, apparently. You don’t think—’
Wilde shook his head decisively. ‘I don’t think for a moment that Lydia has anything to do with the Comintern or anything else remotely secret. She’s a free thinker. Believes in a bright tomorrow when all men and women live in harmony in Arts and Crafts houses. But that’s it. She’s no Bolshevik.’
‘I believe they met at Girton.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Miss Hereward was an aspiring journalist.’
‘Just like you, Mr Eaton. Quite a good cover, don’t you think? Reporters have an excuse to go abroad. Observe things. Ask difficult questions.’
‘You sound like Mr Secretary Walsingham. A devious character, your Mr Walsingham. I read your biography of the great man and the way he did for the Scots queen. Congratulations, Professor Wilde.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure Walsingham would use journalists as spies if he were around now. He certainly used merchants, travellers, diplomats and servants in the palaces and great houses.’ Wilde finished his whisky. ‘Let me think about your proposal, Mr Eaton. I will be in touch.’ He turned to go back into the hall where Kholtov was just finishing his speech. ‘Do you have a card? Where are you staying?’
‘Leave messages for me at the Bull Hotel. I’ll be in and out.’ Eaton handed Wilde his embossed card. Headed ‘The Times’, it said Philip Eaton, Special Correspondent, and gave a series of telephone numbers for the London office.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a card to give you.’
Eaton patted him on the shoulder. ‘I know exactly where to find you, professor. Let’s talk in the morning. Oh, and do buy one of the sensational newspapers – I think you’ll find there’s quite a splash.’
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