‘Before your time, professor. Used to be an undergraduate here. Quite a one with the ladies, I gather. God knows what they saw in him.’
‘How does he know Dr Sawyer?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir. Before his time, too.’
*
Wilde met Lydia at Dorothy’s. The celebrated café restaurant was particularly noisy and busy, packed out with groups of office workers getting into the Christmas spirit early; paper hats, turkey lunches and dancing in the ballroom.
He ordered coffee for them both, then leant back in his chair. Somewhere a great cheer went up, followed by a raucous rendition of ‘God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen’. He told her about Dave Johnson, about his heroin addiction and that it had been he who had introduced it to Nancy.
‘I had no inkling,’ she said. ‘He covers it up well.’
‘So did our Victorian grandmothers.’
Even behind her glasses, he could see that she had been crying. He did not allude to it. Instead he handed her the letter Nancy had sent to Dave Johnson. He watched Lydia as she read it.
After a minute she looked up and met Wilde’s eyes. ‘There’s a lot to take in. Obviously it’s what she was going to talk to me about.’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘It’s damned alarming, actually. I hadn’t realised that Hereward was so heavily involved in the Blackshirts.’
‘No,’ Wilde said. He had been wondering, too, about the role of Duncan Sawyer. Wynyard Hall was the grand north-eastern seat of the seventh Marquess of Londonderry and his ambitious wife Edith. Interesting that Sawyer and Hereward should have been invited there. Particularly interesting that the Ribbentrops had been there, too. The old master and the young professor were flying in high, if notorious, society.
‘But why was Nancy going through his things in his study? It’s not like her.’
‘Someone must have asked her to look for something. That’s the implication, isn’t it?’
Lydia removed her glasses and frowned. ‘But what?’
‘The letter doesn’t say. But if Philip Eaton is correct and she had been sent by someone in the Comintern to Berlin, why would that be the end of it? Once they’ve got her doing things for them, why not use her to spy on a Nazi sympathiser?’
‘But surely she wouldn’t spy on her own father!’
They were both silent for a few moments. At last Wilde spoke out loud what they were both thinking. ‘Should we be wondering whether either of these events – Berlin or the visit to her father’s study – led to her death?’
‘She was definitely worried about something. The names on the list . . . and, it says here, one in particular. What have we stumbled on, Tom? And where’s the list? She says here she wrote it down.’
‘I mean to find out. Horace Dill might know a few answers.’ Wilde reached across the table and took Lydia’s hand. Their fingers entwined. With his other hand he pulled the Spanish coin from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘The police found this in her house. Sir Norman said she had never been to Spain.’
‘What are you suggesting, Tom?’ She removed her hand from his.
He shrugged. ‘It’s a bloody obvious link, Lydia. Who do we know who’s just come from Spain?’
‘You can’t lay this at Yuri Kholtov’s door!’
‘You’re the one who thinks Nancy’s death was foul play, Lydia.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Everyone has old foreign coins.’
‘You’re right. It probably means nothing.’ He picked up the peseta and put it back in his pocket.
‘Is that it? Is that all you found there?’
‘There was a bundle of love letters from someone called Jack. Scented, and all tied up with blue ribbon. Very innocent, I thought.’
Lydia laughed. ‘She was about twelve. I don’t think they even held hands. They met at some gymkhana, as I recall. They’re nothing, Tom, honestly.’
‘I thought as much.’
The waitress came and asked if they wanted anything more, perhaps some Christmas pudding or a minced pie, fresh-baked at Matthews? Lydia said no, and Wilde asked for the bill.
As they made for the door she clutched his arm. ‘What about the letter? Are you going to take it to the police?’
‘No. They won’t be interested. They’d shrug and say it proves nothing – and they’d be right. And after last night’s fracas with Braithwaite, I rather think they’d begin to see me as a bloody nuisance. To tell the truth, Lydia, I don’t think they want to know.’
CHAPTER 21
Hereward took five minutes to come to the telephone. He sounded impatient. ‘Have you found out something?’
‘Possibly.’ Wilde was back at college, using the telephone at the porters’ lodge.
‘What?’ The voice was brisk.
‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’
‘Go on.’
‘What can you tell me about a group called North Sea?’
There was silence on the other end of the line. Wilde waited.
‘North Sea,’ Wilde repeated.
‘I’m sorry, the line’s not terribly good. What did you say?’
Wilde said it again. ‘North Sea. I wanted to ask you about North Sea. Your daughter Nancy mentioned it to one of her friends. She seemed to be deeply troubled by it.’
‘Which friend?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘And what exactly is this North Sea?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me, Sir Norman. It seems to be a group of highly placed and powerful men. She discovered that you’re involved with this group and the effect on her was profound.’
‘Look here, Wilde.’ Cold anger now. ‘I have no idea who you have been talking to or what you think you have discovered, but it sounds like tripe. Who are these North Sea people?’
‘Politicians, civil servants, the judiciary. Familiar names.’ It was a good enough guess. A fifth column perhaps; allies of the Londonderrys and Mosley. Wilde could not come straight out and accuse his former master of association with them. ‘I’m sure you know them all a great deal better than I do. If you want to talk in private, I’ll ride out to the priory.’
‘No. Whatever you think you’ve found, I can tell you it’s complete bilgewater. My daughter was very disturbed in the last weeks of her life. She had delusions. You’re looking in the wrong direction. I’ll say it again: Dill and his gang, those are the ones you should be looking at.’
‘North Sea bears investigating, though, don’t you think? Your daughter thought so.’
‘I would thank you, Wilde, not to trouble yourself any further in this matter.’
The line went dead.
*
Wilde made his way to his rooms where he hunted down his bottle of Scotch and poured himself a healthy dram. He slung it down his throat and immediately poured another, and then sat back on the sofa and closed his eyes to think. There was a link missing. If, for argument’s sake, there was a connection between Nancy’s death and work she was supposedly doing for the Comintern, what could it possibly have to do with the deaths of Cecil and Penny Langley? What was it he was not seeing?
Five minutes later there was a rap at his door.
‘Come in.’
It was the head porter, hat under his arm, looking very apologetic. ‘You have a visitor downstairs, professor. He was all for marching straight up, but I said I thought you would prefer him to be announced.’
‘Who is it?’ Wilde pulled himself up from the sofa.
‘Lord Slievedonard, fur coat and all. He’s parked his bright red motor right in front of the main gate. Like he owns the place.’
What in the name of God did Slievedonard want with him? Wilde shrugged. ‘Send him up, Scobie.’
He was already there, pushing Scobie aside and filling the doorway with his bulk.
‘Professor Wilde?’ he boomed.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that whisky?’
‘It is.’
‘Pour me one, there’s a good man.
’
It was an order more than a request.
Wilde laughed and handed his glass over to Slievedonard, then eased past him and called down the stairs after the porter. ‘Is Dr Sawyer still in college, Scobie? I saw him an hour or so ago.’
‘I believe he’s here, sir.’
‘Be so good as to ask him to join us here. Now, if you don’t mind.’ It was Sawyer who had introduced the concept of a Slievedonard scholarship; he could deal with it.
Wilde was certain he had another glass somewhere, hidden behind a pile of papers or books, but he had no chance of looking for it: Slievedonard’s enormous girth, made even greater by his voluminous fur, almost filled the room. Only thing to do; Wilde grasped the bottle and drank from it.
‘Damnably cold in here. Doesn’t your gyp keep a fire for you?’
‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
Slievedonard didn’t bother with small talk; he hadn’t even thought to introduce himself. ‘I believe you know about my proposition, Wilde. And I want your support.’
‘Ah, the scholarship.’
‘It will be a bit like Herr Toepfer’s new Hanseatic Scholarships, but in reverse, like the Rhodes thing. I want to sponsor a German student every year to study history at Cambridge. I want you to initiate it. I need a history man on side and I’m damned if I’ll ask that filthy old Bolshevik Horace Dill. My friends tell me you are the man to help me. You will, of course, be rewarded handsomely for your assistance.’
Was he being offered a bribe for his support? A dull glint caught Wilde’s eye. The other glass was on the floor by the sofa. He bent to pick it up, wiped it with his sleeve then poured half a glass, neat.
‘Well? What do you say to that?’
‘Have my feelings not already been made clear to you?’
‘A bargaining ploy, Wilde. You want to know what’s in it for you. Quite natural.’
‘Some friends of yours suggested me, you say? Which friends? Dr Sawyer, by any chance? Sir Norman Hereward?’
Slievedonard began to pace round the room, the ancient floor creaking with every step. Wilde estimated his weight at three hundred pounds. A human earthquake. ‘That doesn’t matter. Are you interested? I’m sure you have plenty of time on your hands. This will be something to occupy you and earn you some decent money.’
‘I’m never against bright young people being able to come to Cambridge. Especially from abroad. But I can see problems.’ One particular, insurmountable problem.
‘Not just Cambridge,’ Slievedonard said. ‘Specifically this college. I want them to come here. It will be worth five hundred pounds a year to the scholar and a great deal more to college funds and to you. It will be called the Slievedonard Scholarship, and my son’s portrait will hang in Hall, God rest his soul.’
Wilde took a deep draught. The Scotch burnt its way down his gullet. ‘That would be up to the fellows.’
‘With your backing, I think we can make up their minds for them.’
‘Let’s fix a meeting early next term and we can talk about it properly.’
‘Let’s talk about it now.’ Slievedonard took out a large wallet and pulled out a wad of five pound notes. He leant forward and slapped the money down on Wilde’s desk. ‘This is a down payment.’
‘Lord Slievedonard, I won’t accept your money.’
‘Take it.’
‘If you leave it here, it will go to charity.’
‘Spend it how you wish.’ Slievedonard stopped pacing and deposited his bulk on the leather sofa. He stretched out his arms and legs.
‘Before we go any further,’ Wilde said, ‘it’s only fair I should be honest with you. There will be many here, myself included, who would have misgivings about being associated with you or your money. Your politics are not looked on kindly, save by Dr Sawyer.’
‘My politics! What have my politics got to do with anything?’
‘You give money to the Blackshirts. You cheat the Jews out of their gold. You were at Nuremberg cheering on Hitler.’
‘Cheering on Herr Hitler? Is that supposed to be some sort of crime? Adolf’s a damn fine leader and a good man. As for cheating the Jews out of their gold, that’s a calumny. They are desperate to sell and I give them the best price they’re going to get. I am not a bigot. I have met many Jews and some of them are decent enough chaps.’
‘Then why don’t you say so in your nasty little magazine?’
‘That’s just politics. This is business.’
Wilde picked up the bundle of banknotes and held them out to Slievedonard. He was just about to order the man out, when he paused. ‘I saw you at St Wilfred’s Priory.’
‘Is that so?’ Slievedonard said, ignoring Wilde’s fistful of money.
‘I knew Sir Norman’s daughter, Nancy.’
‘As did I. Sir Norman and I go back a long way.’
‘And I saw your photograph at Cecil Langley’s house.’
‘Another friend. My heart goes out to both families. These are tragic days. I imagine I must be a target, too, but I’m damned if I’ll let the bloody Bolshies terrorise me.’ Slievedonard was not a man to be distracted. ‘Now – to the matter in hand. These incidents have concentrated my mind on the matter of the scholarship. Life is short. I must do these things while I can. Charity and good deeds cannot wait. Strike while the iron is hot.’
Wilde, too, was not easily put off course. ‘You all shared right-wing views – you, Sir Norman and Mr Langley. You were all at Nuremberg together. You fund the British Union of Fascists. There is a connection.’
A brief, almost jarring, hesitation. ’What are you talking about, Wilde?’
Wilde sensed uncertainty, even fear. ‘I am wondering whether there might be some link between the deaths of the Langleys and Nancy Hereward.’
‘Well, I’m with you on that, Wilde. All three of them were killed by the bloody commies. Only an idiot would think otherwise. The evidence is clear. And the culprit is obvious – a vicious little Russian agent called Kholtov, presently strutting and preening around Cambridge, I am told.’
‘Why would you think Kholtov has anything to do with any of this?’
‘You’ll see soon enough. Pour me another whisky.’
Wilde gave his visitor the last of the Scotch.
‘The problem is, Wilde, that most people don’t do a great deal of thinking. The BUF is a movement of the common man, as is the NSDAP in Germany.’
‘They are bullies. Violent thugs.’
‘It’s the Soviet Union that has legalised murder. Have you not heard of these show trials in Moscow? False evidence, then a bullet in the head. Wholesale slaughter. No appeal, no defence. Their crime? Falling foul of Stalin and his paranoid delusions. Germany, by comparison, is a law-abiding country. Herr Hitler has had to use very little in the way of strong-arm tactics to put down his enemies.’
To Wilde, this was like arguing that lions must be tame because tigers were wild. He didn’t want to labour the point, but nor could he allow Slievedonard’s views to go unchallenged. ‘In Nazi Germany, there is an internment camp at Dachau, just outside Munich. You may have heard of it. I have been told of men disappearing into its barbed-wire confines, never to be heard of again. There are Jews living in Cambridge today because they were forced out of their businesses and homes in Germany. Others wander Europe stateless, thrown from border to border. We all know of men and women murdered or displaced for the crime of disagreeing with Hitler or Goering.’
Slievedonard roared with laughter. ‘You damned Americans, you’re soft in the head.’
Soft in the head. Dill had called him ‘a bleeding heart Yank’. He was being attacked from right and left. Which meant he must be dead centre. Was that a healthy place to be?
‘Put your mind to it, Wilde,’ Slievedonard urged. ‘Drop everything and work with me on this. Join my payroll and I’ll set you up. We can do business together – help some young people and do a great deal of good for the prestige of this ancient college, which has a special
place in my heart. Do I make myself clear?’
Why him? Wilde wondered. It was almost as if the man was trying to buy him off.
‘Name your price, Wilde. Five thousand a year? What’s that – five times the salary of a history professor? I want you to be my man. We can do this without you, but I want you on our side.’
There was a knock on the door. Duncan Sawyer was standing outside, anger written across his face. He caught sight of Slievedonard and his expression altered dramatically. Not deferential, nor submissive, but something Wilde couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Ah, Sawyer,’ Wilde said. ‘His lordship was just leaving. Perhaps you’d show him out for me.’
*
Lydia was hunched over her desk at LM Books. She had already sent the corrected proofs of the poetry anthology back to the printer, but on reading it through again, she had found a literal on the last page. She had telephoned the printer, but he had said bad-temperedly that it was too late, that the run was more than halfway through. The thing was, the error was horribly obvious and changed the whole meaning of the verse. How on earth had she missed lead instead of led? It should have been ‘the old men led them into the acre of death’. How had she missed it? Her brain was full of blood and murder. Well, it would just have to go out like this with a correction slip; it might have been a linotype operator’s error in the first place, but it was her fault that it had not been noticed.
She sat back, staring at the error. What was the bloody point of it all? Here she was, publishing other people’s poetry when she couldn’t even write her own. Why did she even try to write, spending hours late at night searching for the right word to explain emotions and concepts that were probably impossible to convey anyway? How could ink on paper explain the lost lives of young men? In a sudden fury she hurled the proofs across the room.
‘Lydia?’
The voice sent a shiver down her spine. She took off her tortoise-shell reading glasses, wiped her sleeve over her eyes, and turned round in disbelief. ‘Hart?’
Hartmut Dorfen was grinning broadly. ‘Hello, Lydia. I see I have caught you at a bad time.’
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