Corpus

by Rory Clements

  ‘Indeed, Mr Kholtov.’ He patted the Russian on the shoulder. ‘Good luck in Moscow. Rather you than me.’

  As he walked home through Cambridge, this time at a slower pace, he wondered what an agent of the Soviet Union could be talking about in such a secretive fashion to a member of MI6. He particularly wondered why the Russian was showing a golden coin to the Englishman and why he didn’t want Wilde to see it.

  *

  A black car drew to a halt beside him just as he was passing Petty Cury. Superintendent Bower wound down the rear window and beckoned him.

  ‘Good evening, superintendent.’

  ‘We’re looking for the Russian. Where is he?’

  ‘What Russian?’

  ‘Don’t be clever, Professor Wilde. I know very well you were at the rally. I know, too, that he had dinner at Miss Morris’s house, and that you were there.’

  ‘Ah, that Russian. Yuri Kholtov. What of him?’

  ‘I want to question him about the murder of Mr and Mrs Langley.’

  ‘Is there some evidence against him?’

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off. He’s a communist, Professor Wilde.’

  ‘What sort of tip-off?’

  ‘A telephone call, divulging the man’s violent past – and his movements in this area. I don’t think there can be much doubt about his guilt.’

  ‘Who made the call?’

  ‘It was anonymous, but I can assure you it added up in every detail.’

  ‘Then I shall keep my eyes out for him, superintendent. Thank you for warning me.’

  ‘I’m told you are a scholar of some renown, Professor Wilde, a man of remarkable intellectual faculties. Might I suggest you use the brain God gave you to help the police in the execution of their duty?’

  ‘What are you implying, superintendent?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t believe you, professor. I think you know very well where the bloody Russki is.’

  As he walked away Wilde considered why he had not told Bower that Kholtov was, at that very moment, in the Bull with Eaton. Let the police do their own work. Surely, Kholtov was not a man who would compromise his position in such a crude and bloody way; Kholtov was here in Cambridge for some other reason. The question was, what? Wilde gritted his teeth. The truth was, he had no solid reason to believe Kholtov innocent, even though Horace Dill had insisted Kholtov was with him on the day Nancy died. Wilde’s hand went to his pocket and gripped the peseta coin. It was a small clue. But the only person he knew who had been to Spain recently was Yuri Kholtov. Why had he not shown it to Bower?

  CHAPTER 24

  Immediately Lydia opened the front door, Wilde saw in her eyes that something was not quite right.

  ‘Lydia? You left a note on my mat to come round.’

  ‘Tom, there’s someone here – an old friend.’

  Wilde gazed over her shoulder.

  ‘He’s in the sitting room.’ Help me. She mouthed the words.

  It was a pleasant, elegant room, with sofa and armchairs, Persian carpet, occasional tables and a wireless, but the atmosphere was strained and strange. In the centre of the room was a tall, fair-haired man. Wilde frowned. He seemed familiar. But where from? Then he realised – he had seen him fleetingly earlier that day, in college with Dr Sawyer.

  Lydia gave Wilde a strained smile.

  ‘Tom, this is Hartmut Dorfen, or Hart as we all called him when he was up here. He’s a very old friend of Nancy, Margot and mine. He’s here for Nancy’s funeral. I so wanted you to meet him. Hart, this is Professor Tom Wilde.’

  The men shook hands.

  Somewhat surprised, Wilde smiled at the handsome German. ‘Good to meet you, Herr Dorfen. Am I right in thinking I saw you this afternoon with Duncan Sawyer?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, I did call on him. He’s an old friend from my Munich days.’

  ‘Such a small world.’

  ‘We met in the early thirties when he was at the Ludwig Maximilian University. I was doing some research there after going down from Cambridge. That was before the bloody Nazis grabbed power, of course.’

  Wilde nodded. What did this man Dorfen mean to Lydia? She was like a taut cable in his presence. And why was he in her sitting room if she didn’t want him here?

  ‘Lydia has been telling me wonderful things about you,’ Dorfen said.

  ‘I can’t imagine what.’

  Wilde had intended only to stay long enough for a brief conversation and a glass of wine with Lydia, to catch up on the day. Now, though, it seemed she needed him. He studied Dorfen. Despite his country tweed suit and immaculate shoes – Church’s or perhaps Crockett and Jones? – Hartmut Dorfen would never pass as an English gentleman. The same could be said, Wilde acknowledged, of himself, but then he wasn’t trying. He glanced at Lydia, looking for clues that might explain her discomfort, but she had her eyes down, fiddling with the hem of her pullover. He turned back to Dorfen. ‘So, when did you and Lydia meet?’

  ‘The 1929 May Ball,’ Dorfen said. ‘A wonderful night.’

  He ran his flawless fingers through his short fair hair. He was absurdly good-looking, thought Wilde; he could have been a movie star from Herr Goebbels’s stable of approved Aryan actors. He put aside his instinctive antipathy; if Lydia needed help, he would offer it.

  ‘They were good days,’ Dorfen went on. ‘Now I live in London, in a sort of limbo. Neither the joy of my Cambridge years, nor the comfort of my homeland.’

  ‘Are you avoiding Germany? Have you joined the happy band of exiles who have fallen foul of the regime?’

  ‘No, it is the regime that has fallen foul of me.’

  ‘Indeed. There is much to dislike about the new Germany.’ Wilde was not totally convinced. Why did so many middle-class Germans sneer at Hitler when they were in England and then salute him when they returned home?

  ‘A man must do what a man must do – which I know will be instantly denounced as a cliché by Lydia. It was always her declared role to improve my English.’

  ‘I’d say you speak excellent English,’ Wilde said.

  ‘My mother insisted I learn from an early age and that I attend Cambridge. She has always had a romantic notion about your country.’

  ‘Not my country, Herr Dorfen.’

  Lydia held up a bottle. ‘Hart brought us this vintage claret, Tom. You have to try it.’ She was pleading with him: please stay. Half an hour won’t hurt. ‘One little glass. You could keep Hart company while I go and change. He’s caught me in my working togs.’

  There was an edge of panic in Lydia’s voice. Wilde touched her arm reassuringly. ‘Then how can I refuse? A really small glass, though, Lydia. I’ve already had a couple of Scotches at the Bull and I do need to keep a clear head.’

  Even as he spoke, she was pouring him a glass. It was a premier cru from a good vineyard. A superb year. He held up the glass appreciatively to the light, noting the deep, rich red. ‘Very good indeed. You obviously have fine taste and deep pockets, Herr Dorfen.’

  ‘I learnt everything I know about wine during my time here. We were good friends in the old days. Lydia, Nancy and I . . .’

  ‘And Margot, of course,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Indeed, Margot.’

  Wilde glanced at Lydia again, then back to Dorfen. Did this man not know the fate of the Langleys? Had Lydia not told him? As casually as he could, he said, ‘You must have heard about her parents?’

  Dorfen frowned. He, too, turned to Lydia and met her frightened eyes.

  ‘What is this, Lydia? Has something happened?’

  ‘They’re dead, Hart. I’m sorry, I should have said something before . . .’ She trailed off uncertainly. ‘It’s all been such a shock – and then you walking in on me unexpectedly . . .’

  Dorfen’s eyes were wide. He was shaking. ‘Dead? Why did you not tell me at once?’

  Wilde cut in. ‘It’s very recent.’

  ‘Was there an accident?’

  ‘No accident,’ Wilde said. ‘They were murdere
d. Their bodies were discovered on Wednesday evening, their throats cut.’

  Lydia gasped. ‘Tom – don’t!’

  ‘Forgive me, Lydia, I shouldn’t have said that. Absolutely unnecessary.’

  ‘It’s bad enough that they died, but to conjure up such an image. Hart knew them well. We both did.’

  ‘I spoke without thinking.’ Tom Wilde never spoke without thinking. He tilted his head to one side apologetically. ‘Please accept my apologies, Dorfen. What happened to them is a tragedy. A horrible tragedy.’

  Hartmut Dorfen looked as if he was about to faint. He clasped the arm of a chair and lowered himself into it. ‘This is too much. I cannot believe you are telling me this. Who could do such a thing?’ He dug his hand into the pocket of his expensive jacket and pulled out a packet of Players. With shaking fingers he put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. He drew deeply, and as an afterthought he offered the packet to Lydia and Wilde. They both shook their heads.

  ‘Can I get you a brandy?’ Wilde suggested. He turned to Lydia. ‘Go and change. I’ll look after your guest.’

  Lydia put down the wine bottle, touched Hart’s arm, threw a grateful smile at Wilde, and left the room.

  Wilde went to the drinks cabinet and poured a stiff measure of brandy for Dorfen, but not for himself. He brought the drink back and handed it to the German. ‘They lived not far from here, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I visited them on several occasions,’ Dorfen said, taking the drink. He seemed to have got over his initial shock.

  ‘Of course, you must have done. You’d have known their house well.’ Wilde looked for a reaction, saw none, and continued. ‘I have been wondering whether there might be some link between their deaths and Nancy’s.’ A second speculative line.

  ‘Nancy died of a heroin overdose, did she not? That is what Lydia told me.’

  Wilde shrugged. ‘Think of the politics. Sir Norman Hereward, Cecil Langley.’

  Dorfen looked surprised. ‘Politics?’

  ‘Surely you know that they shared an admiration for Hitler and the Nazis?’

  ‘Really? I had thought better of them.’

  ‘You must realise, though, that your old friend Duncan Sawyer is also rather fond of the regime in Germany?’

  Dorfen brushed the suggestion away with a flick of the hand. ‘Duncan just likes to outrage sensibilities. Take no notice of him. But as for Nancy and the Langleys . . . well, yes, I can certainly see some tenuous connection. I do not understand what the motive could be, however.’

  ‘Nor do I. And yet . . .’ Time to cast the third line with its little feathery fly. ‘Do you mind if I try a few thoughts on you? You knew these people; I didn’t.’

  ‘I would very much like to hear what you think.’ Dorfen got up from the chair and picked up the wine bottle. He had recovered his earlier confidence. ‘Here, I see you are not drinking brandy, so more claret, yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wilde took the glass but did not drink. ‘Now stop me if I’m boring you, but as an historian and sometime mathematician, I try to think both logically and with reference to the past.’

  Dorfen smiled. ‘The world might be a better place if politicians followed your lead, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard of the so-called Zinoviev letter of 1924, which helped destroy the Labour Party’s hopes of election victory?’

  ‘No,’ said Dorfen. ‘I was not in England in 1924.’

  ‘This letter was discovered by the British press and purported to be the work of the senior Russian official Grigory Zinoviev, writing on behalf of the Comintern. In it, he urged the Communist Party of Great Britain to organise uprisings – just at the time that the Labour Party wanted to do a trade deal with the Soviet Union. The implication was obvious: the Labour government was either being suckered by the Soviets or was treacherous. The letter was published a few days before the election – and the effect was electrifying; the Labour Party was demolished and the Conservatives swept to power.’

  ‘One can understand how such a letter might have that effect.’

  ‘The only problem was that the letter was a forgery.’

  Dorfen grinned. ‘A clever plot, and very effective, it seems. But what has this to do with the murders?’

  ‘Nothing in itself, but it shows how a power, either inside or outside the country, might influence policy and popular feeling with one or two carefully chosen actions. A small nudge of the tiller, if you like. We still don’t know who forged Mr Zinoviev’s signature, but he undoubtedly changed the course of British history.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the deaths of Nancy and the Langleys could have been ordered by someone in England or abroad who was looking for some sort of electoral advantage?’

  Wilde shook his head. ‘There is no election in the offing. But politically motivated murders will always be destabilising. The question is this: who wants to destabilise Britain? These are certainly difficult days for the country with the question of the King’s friendship with Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘So you mean a foreign power is trying to use the crisis for their own ends?’

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it? Or a radical grouping within Britain itself.’

  Dorfen stubbed out his cigarette, grinding the butt hard into the ashtray, so that strands of tobacco broke out around his yellow fingers. ‘We are both historians, yes? Then let us examine the possibilities one by one. I cannot see what Hitler has to gain. It is my understanding that he has always hoped for an alliance with the British. Is this not so? Why would he wish to make trouble here?’

  ‘Indeed, he seems very keen to make friends with people in high places in Britain. People of my own acquaintance – including at least two fellows of my college – have enjoyed his hospitality.’ He recalled Duncan Sawyer’s enthusiastic reports of his days as Goering’s guest at Carinhall, his hunting lodge near Berlin. ‘Many British politicians think Hitler wonderful. So perhaps you are right. On the face of it, the Nazis have nothing to gain by undermining Britain.’

  ‘Hitler is lower than a dog.’ Dorfen spoke with contempt. ‘He is a scraping on the shoe of German history.’

  ‘Did something happen to you or your family?’

  ‘You mean apart from his persecution of those who disagree with him – and the burning of books? The Nazis lack class, Wilde. And that is unforgivable.’

  Wilde laughed lightly. ‘Well, I am glad you think like that,’ he said. ‘So then, we must consider the Soviet Union. Why would Stalin wish to destabilise Britain?’

  Dorfen frowned. ‘It is what the communists do, isn’t it? Look at Spain.’ He glanced down at his hands before raising his gaze to meet Wilde’s. ‘But as an historian, surely you must need more evidence before you can indulge in such speculation, professor?’

  Wilde dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘A fair point,’ he said. ‘But I’m not really speculating, just asking questions.’ He held up his hand as if he had suddenly thought of something. ‘You know, there is just an outside chance you might be able to do something to help in this matter.’

  ‘Anything, of course.’

  ‘Lydia and I have been trying to reach Margot Langley. We have reason to believe she still doesn’t know about her parents’ death. The thing is, it’s possible she’s gone to Germany, but we can’t find her.’

  Dorfen raised his eyebrows. ‘What would Margot be doing in Germany?’

  ‘I’d very much like to find out. Do you know anyone over there who could help?’

  ‘I really don’t know who I would ask. I have no family alive except my mother and I have lost touch with many old friends. My home is England now.’

  The door opened and Lydia came in wearing a simple dress and cardigan, her hair still unkempt but pushed back from her face.

  ‘Ah – Lydia,’ said Wilde. ‘I was just asking Herr Dorfen whether he had any way of finding the whereabouts of Margot.’

  ‘Maybe she will see the news about the murders in the press,’ Dorfen said. ‘I believe
the Munich papers carry major stories from England.’

  ‘She might,’ Wilde said. ‘Although it would be a terrible way to learn about such a tragedy.’

  Dorfen looked at his watch. ‘Lydia, my dear, I really must take my leave. I will see you at the funeral, yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you, professor?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Wilde shook Dorfen’s smooth, dry hand. But I don’t believe I mentioned Margot’s connection to Munich to you, Herr Dorfen.

  CHAPTER 25

  Leslie Braithwaite was waiting for his companion at the side of the road, by the woods where he had been living and sleeping this past day. The clothes he had stolen were serviceable enough and the cold hadn’t bothered him. He was used to it, but he had thought they might at least offer him a horse blanket and a stable to sleep in, up at the big house. But they said he couldn’t be seen there. Bastards.

  He was looking forward to this. His whole life had been building to this. Strike a blow for the proletariat. Start a revolution. He laughed. ‘Fuck the revolution,’ he said out loud. He just wanted to kill one of the English fucking overlords who’d told him what to do every day of his life. The overlords like the halfwit bloody lieutenant who had nearly got him killed back in 1916: ‘Fall in, Braithwaite, you’re coming on a patrol.’

  It had been a wet, moonless night. The rain had fallen ceaselessly for weeks that autumn. In no-man’s-land, you could drown in the mud. Braithwaite, Private Joe Fitzpatrick from Belfast and the lieutenant were supposed to capture a German for questioning. Instead they got caught in the wire, slithering helplessly in the thick wet sludge of earth and blood. Close to the German trenches, the lieutenant took a bullet through the throat. Braithwaite watched him in the yellow light of a flare, gurgling blood, clutching his well-bred neck, for two or three minutes, and then he was gone forever. Joe, paralysed with fear, lying flat on his belly took a single round from a German rifle through the top of his head.

  Braithwaite, caught in the wire, knew he was next. But then the firing stopped and a pair of Huns crawled forward. Here it comes, he thought, the bayonet in the gut. But instead, a German officer held a pistol to his face while the other cut him from the wire.