She began to rise from the wooden chair. ‘Hart, is it really you? What are you doing here?’ Of all the people in the world that she had never expected to see again, none ranked higher than Hartmut Dorfen. When he went down from Cambridge seven years earlier, she had done her best to put him out of mind. But here he was, in her office, in the flesh, looking not a day older. She felt the familiar flutter from which she thought she had broken free.
‘It’s really me, Lydia Morris.’ Dorfen stayed in the doorway, smiling at her. ‘And look at you – as beautiful as ever. My perfect English rose.’
She blushed. ‘Hart, you really do talk such rubbish!’
He, however, was more striking than ever. His blond hair had darkened slightly and his features were more sculpted than she recalled. She got up from her desk. Should they embrace? Kiss cheeks? Shake hands?
‘Then everything is as it always was,’ he said. ‘Hartmut Dorfen, always talking rubbish.’
‘Hart, what are you doing here? You gave me such a shock. I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Your char lady at Cornflowers told me where to find you.’
‘And why are you in Cambridge? You haven’t been back for so long.’
His brow creased with sorrow. ‘You know why, Lydia.’
‘Nancy?’
‘I saw the notice in The Times. The funeral is tomorrow. Of course I had to come. I dropped everything.’ He stepped towards her, his face suffused with sadness and grief. ‘Such a terrible thing. I can’t understand how such a tragedy has happened.’
‘Hart, I don’t know what to say.’
‘We must talk. First, do I not get a little peck of the lips in welcome? We are old friends.’
She turned her cheek to be kissed, but did not move close enough for him to put his arms round her. He accepted the compromise and touched her face with his lips.
Lydia was still confused. ‘Have you come all the way from Munich? How did you manage to get here so quickly?’
He laughed and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. ‘Munich? I haven’t lived in Munich since January 1933 when the bloody Nazis came to power. Do you think I could live under a regime like that? I took the first train out.’
‘Really?’ Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t your father a friend of Herr Hitler?’
‘Hitler deceived him. I thank God he did not live to see what has become of his beloved fatherland. The Nazis are a boil on the arse of the world.’
‘And your mother?’
He shrugged. ‘We write every week. I am hoping she will come over soon, perhaps in the New Year.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘Surviving. Scratching a living. I have a modest house in Pimlico. I work for a company that exports engineering equipment, mostly to the Kriegsmarine, I’m afraid.’ He winced. ‘It pains me to supply anything that might help that bastard Hitler, but a man must eat and my language skills are useful, as you can imagine.’
‘Why did you never come to Cambridge? Why didn’t you write or telephone? Why didn’t you let us know that you were here in England?’
‘You know why I didn’t call,’ he said. ‘There are too many ghosts here. And now Nancy. What happened to her, Lydia? Illness or accident? There is nothing in the papers, not even an obituary, only the funeral notice.’
She didn’t want to discuss this with Hartmut Dorfen, not the truth anyway. The first frisson of seeing his beautiful face and exquisite body, clad in the finest that Huntsman & Sons could provide, had given way to darker memories. Ghosts. They had all been in love with him, of course – Nancy, Margot and, she had to be honest, Lydia herself. Hart’s harem, one wag had called them. There were probably others, too, for Hart was devastatingly attractive. It was all a bit of fun. Except in the end it wasn’t. Not for Margot, anyway.
‘It was a heroin overdose apparently,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I found her body. Her syringe was at her side. The police say it was accident or suicide. They told me the coroner would be holding a quiet little inquest today and it was certain he would rule it an accidental overdose to spare her father the shame of having another suicide in the family.’
‘Heroin? Are you saying Nancy took dope?’
‘For some time now.’
‘But you also mentioned suicide. She was so full of life. I cannot believe . . .’
Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Hart. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? Please.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘It’s lovely to see you and everything, but I really have to deal with this.’ She held up a copy of the Prime of Youth cover.
‘Something you have written?’
‘No.’ If only, she thought. ‘The war poets. I’m merely editor and publisher.’
‘You’re a publisher now? What of your own poetry?’
She smiled. Self-belief was the thing. That was what Tom said. We’re all limited by our own self-belief, or lack of it. ‘One day I’ll write something worthy of publishing. I hope. For the moment, there’s this, the work of others more deserving than I.’
He looked across the room to where the proofs lay scattered.
‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘A bloody literal I missed. I do almost everything myself. Too late now to do anything about it.’
‘Can I have a copy, misprint and all?’
She smiled. ‘Of course! Give me your address before you go and I’ll send you a copy. Are you staying at a hotel?’ She hesitated only a beat, then said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come round this evening after supper? We could chat over a drink. Catch up on old times, yes?’
‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it, even though the circumstances are so sad.’
‘About eight then. And there’s someone I’d like you to meet – my neighbour, Professor Thomas Wilde. He’s a history don at your old college. After your time, so your paths wouldn’t have crossed.’ She would very much like to hear Tom’s opinion of Hartmut Dorfen.
She put out her hand and Dorfen held it between his two hands for a moment, scrutinising her with his dark blue eyes, as if he was not at all sure what he was seeing.
He smiled. ‘I think I would remember a man called Wilde.’ But he knew of him, of course. Oh, indeed, he had heard a great deal about Thomas Wilde.
CHAPTER 22
The Foreign Office man was beaming. He swirled the brandy as he held it up to the light streaming in through the tall window of the club’s long room. ‘A bit of good fortune,’ he said. ‘It seems there is a Russian in Cambridge, a Russian agent. A very convenient Russian agent.’
His two friends laughed. They understood immediately the significance of this statement.
‘Then it is our duty to inform the police,’ the general said.
‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ the Foreign Office mandarin said. ‘Everything is already in hand.’
‘Well, well,’ the landowner said. ‘As you say, very convenient. Very convenient indeed.’
‘There was something else,’ the mandarin continued. ‘It seems there is an American academic taking an interest.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Perhaps not. But he has connections with the American embassy. And he seems a little too persistent in his questioning.’ He put his glass to his lips and drank, savouring the fine Cognac.
‘Then we must do our duty by him, too. No loose ends.’
*
It was late afternoon. December’s over-hasty darkness had fallen and the cloudless sky lent a chill to the air. Wilde left his rooms and crossed the old court to the west side. The staircase to Horace Dill’s rooms stank of cigar smoke and sweat. Wilde knocked and waited. He knocked again and from within came an irritated cry, ‘Go away!’
‘It’s Tom Wilde. I want to speak to you.’ From inside, he heard cursing.
When at last he dragged himself to the door and opened it, Dill looked angry. Behind him, Wilde could see chaos: furniture, papers and books piled high. The smell from within was even ranker than the
staircase. He had never been in here; Dill’s only visitors tended to be undergraduates.
‘Have I come at a bad time, Horace?’
‘Is there a good time?’
Wilde stepped forward. ‘Can I come in? I want to talk to you about Nancy Hereward.’
‘I don’t think I have anything to say to you, Tom.’
‘Are you sure? I think we need a civilised – and thorough – conversation about Nancy’s little excursion in Berlin.’
Dill looked at Wilde suspiciously. ‘I thought I made myself clear at dinner, I don’t know what game you think you’re playing and I care even less.’
‘You made nothing clear. Let me in, Horace, for heaven’s sake. Who have you got in there?’
Dill stepped to one side. ‘Come in, if you must.’ He stopped. ‘On second thoughts, let’s go for a walk. I’ll get my coat.’
They wandered round the old court and then the new court, lit by the lights from dozens of windows, two professors strolling in the dusk, an inconsequential daily sight. They could have been discussing the Glorious Revolution, the degeneration of the nucleus, the price of claret or their plans for the vacation. Anything. World-changing concepts had been born in this grassy space, along with a great deal of scandalous tittle-tattle.
‘They listen to me, you know,’ Dill said. ‘In my rooms. We’re safer out here.’
‘Who listens to you?’
‘MI5, the Gestapo. They’re all one and the same. Do you not think they talk to each other?’
‘I doubt very much that MI5 talks to the Gestapo. What a preposterous notion.’
Dill threw a sideways glance at Wilde. ‘How little you affect to know. I don’t believe a man who has studied Walsingham is that naive. But then again, the spied-on rarely realise they are watched until it’s too late.’
‘All I want to know is the truth about the death of Nancy Hereward. So far I don’t have much to go on except Lydia’s suspicion. But the one thing I’m sure of is that Nancy carried out an assignment for you while she was in Berlin for the Olympics.’
‘Who put this nonsense in your head?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me.’ Dill had stopped in his tracks beside the doorway to the master’s lodge. He was bent forward as though examining some speck on the path through his bottle-lens spectacles, but he was, in fact, dusting the blackened ash from the tip of a cigar which he had fished from his coat pocket. He looked at Wilde. ‘It matters very much.’
‘Perhaps I heard it from MI5.’
‘You mean Eaton? No, I don’t believe he has told you anything. Much too sly and clever to give stuff away.’ He shoved the cigar in his mouth. ‘Give me a match.’
‘I don’t smoke. What makes you think Eaton is MI5?’
‘He’s not. He’s MI6. Far too well bred for Five. I supervised him when he was at Trinity. I know Eaton very well.’ Dill was looking at Wilde oddly, a quizzical, almost mischievous curling of the lips. Not quite a knowing smile, but not far away. ‘Better than you know him, clearly. Have you not wondered why he sought you out, Tom?’
‘We are both interested in finding out how Nancy Hereward died.’
‘Naive, naive, naive. Tom Wilde, I thought you were more astute than that. Eaton wants to recruit you, you fool!’
Wilde laughed out loud. ‘How could I possibly help MI6?’
‘By finding the brightest and best of your undergraduates. This is where they recruit young men. They like to use people like you and me as talent scouts. Trust me, Tom, Eaton wants to sign you up.’
Of course. ‘And you, Horace – do you work for him?’
It was Dill’s turn to laugh. ‘He knows my politics too well. I don’t think a paid-up member of the Communist Party of Great Britain would be welcomed with open arms by His Majesty’s secret intelligence service, do you?’
The college clock chimed five. Wilde waited, considering how to turn the conversation back to Nancy Hereward. If knowledge was power, it did not always benefit its possessor to reveal it. But one way or another he wanted to provoke a reaction. And at least he had got Horace out of his rooms. More than that, he seemed to be reasonably sober, which was a welcome novelty.
Wilde made his mind up. ‘I’ll be frank with you then, Horace. I have found Nancy’s diary.’ It was plausible enough. If Horace refused to believe he had learned of the Berlin assignment from Philip Eaton, he had to invent another source. ‘You feature prominently in it, particularly regarding the mission you demanded of her at the Olympics. It is clear you had a large influence on her.’
‘Show me this diary.’ Dill was far too experienced an historian not to insist on seeing the evidence.
‘I don’t have it with me – and I wouldn’t let you get your hands on it, anyway.’
Dill was chewing the butt of his cigar, which was already a sodden mess. He removed it from his mouth. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about Nancy Hereward. She was very brave, you know.’
‘I rather gathered that.’
‘But I dispute that I had any influence over her. If she did anything, it’s because she wanted to do it. And I would say that it’s faintly patronising to suggest that the likes of Nancy Hereward or John Cornford could be influenced by me; I merely facilitate matters for them when I can. Nancy hated the Nazis and she wanted to do what she could to help in the struggle against them.’
‘But you gave her the Berlin assignment.’
‘If you know all this, then why do you need anything from me?’
‘Because I don’t know all the details. Good God, Horace, the girl’s dead – how can it hurt her if you come clean with me?’
Dill met Wilde’s eyes, his gaze steady in the yellow light. ‘If I speak of this, it goes no further. Is that clear?’
‘I’ll have to speak with Lydia, but apart from that, you have my word.’
‘Very well, but you didn’t get any of this from me. Nancy wanted to make a difference – to thumb her nose at Hitler’s gang. I merely made a suggestion to her; there was no coercion.’ He patted his pockets, looking for something. ‘The first thing you should know is that her trip had nothing to do with the Comintern. You know of the SPSL?’
‘Of course.’ The Society for the Protection of Science and Learning was an outfit to which he had happily contributed. Formerly known as the Academic Assistance Council, it had been set up three years earlier to help scientists and others fleeing persecution in Nazi Germany.
‘They are saving a fair number of academics, particularly Jews and communists who have fallen foul of the Nazis. Helping them find new places and new jobs here and in other countries.’
‘Yes, I know that. They do good work.’
‘What do you know of Arnold Lindberg?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Physics professor at Göttingen and a prominent member of the underground KPD. Too prominent for his own good; first he was attacked by the Deutsche Physik gang, then Himmler set his attack dog Heydrich on the case. I think it was something Arnold wrote about Himmler’s sexual peccadillos. That’s enough for the guillotine in Germany these days. Arnold was tipped off and went into hiding. All his friends and family were watched but he was able to get a letter to me.
‘He knew there was no way out of Germany without convincing ID papers because Heydrich would have put watches on all ports and border crossings. Getting the papers made was easy enough here in Cambridge. There are more than enough refugees from Germany with the knowledge and skills. But I needed a way to get the papers to him.’
‘Nancy Hereward.’
‘Precisely. All she had to do was take a tram to the Potsdamer Platz for a bit of tourist shopping and sightseeing. Once in the city centre it was simple for her to get lost in the shopping crowds in case the Gestapo were watching, and from there it was only a mile’s walk to the apartment where Arnold was hiding out. A twenty-five minute stroll, taking a circuitous route and checking all the while to ensure she wasn’t tail
ed. Once at the apartment, she handed over the false papers, and left him to it. She had done her bit to save a great man.’
‘And did it work? Did Lindberg get out?’
Dill began walking again. ‘I need a fucking light. Let’s go to the porters’ lodge.’ The temperature was dropping with every passing minute. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, Arnold Lindberg was arrested on the train before it even left the station. I suspect Nancy was followed, and then the Nazi secret boys followed Arnold to see if he led them to anyone else. But that doesn’t reflect on Nancy. She had done all she could and more.’
‘What has happened to him? Is he dead?’
Dill shrugged. ‘Possibly. Perhaps he’s in Dachau or some other hell-hole. It’s all bloody smoke and fog in Germany. You are arrested and you disappear and when your friends make inquiries, the officials merely shrug their shoulders. Nothing more is ever heard, except that the names of the friends who made the inquiry go on a list of people to be watched. We only know of the arrest because another member of the KPD was at the railway station by chance. Since then I’ve used the offices of the SPSL to demand information and request he be allowed to travel to England, but we hear nothing. They simply don’t reply to our requests – and the British diplomatic service won’t help because Lindberg is both foreign and a communist.’
‘So you’re saying Nancy carried out this mission on behalf of the SPSL, not the Comintern? There’s no communist connection at all?’
‘That’s precisely what I’m saying.’
‘From her diary, I would have said she thought otherwise.’
‘Then she was protecting the SPSL. It would not be good for their reputation to be seen to be working undercover in Germany. They would be badly compromised.’
‘And what of Professor Lindberg? When he was captured he’ll have been tortured.’
‘Of course, he will. And you have to assume that he will have revealed everything he knew about other dissidents. And he will have told them how the papers were delivered.’
‘So the Gestapo will know about Nancy?’
‘The Gestapo make the Inquisition look like amateurs. Oh, they’ll have learned all about Nancy Hereward. She’d have become a prime target.’
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