Corpus

by Rory Clements

  ‘And our part in this campaign?’

  ‘You will be the conquering liberators of your homeland. You will be the heroic vanguard and, as such, the new rulers of Russia. You have been selected not just for your courage, Herr Rybakov, but your intelligence and qualities of leadership.’

  There was a fine line between praise and flattery and Rybakov was no fool: flattery always came with a price tag. Mann left him with a telephone number to call.

  Later that evening, as they were sitting down to their meagre supper, Rybakov’s old mother finally spoke. He had expected her to tell him to leave well alone, but she didn’t. He must accept the German’s offer, she said. He must avenge his father’s cold-blooded murder. He must take her home to St Petersburg, to their wonderful old house. Whatever it cost, he must do this; for even death was better than this exile in the wasteland of the west.

  CHAPTER 28

  There is nothing colder than a burial on a winter’s morning. Wind and sleet blew in from the east, wrapping the pile of earth dug for the grave in a winding sheet of dirty white.

  No overcoat or scarf could keep out the chill. Wilde barely listened to the words of the vicar. They were meant to bring comfort to the family and friends, with promises of eternal life, but there seemed little consolation here within the ancient walled graveyard of St Wilfred and All Saints Church. How could there be hope in this cold acre, when a young woman’s decaying body lay in a box of wood, waiting to be covered in earth?

  As the coffin was lowered, Lydia’s gloved hand sought out Wilde’s and clutched it tight. Her head moved into his shoulder. He was half a foot taller than her. His arm instinctively brought her closer. Together, there was at least the semblance of warmth.

  ‘Peace is in the grave,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘The grave hides all things beautiful and good.’

  ‘Shelley.’

  ‘Do you believe it, Tom, the peace? It all looks cold and cruel to me. I pray she is at peace, but I don’t feel it.’

  The church had been packed for the service. Some of the mourners were friends, like Lydia and Dorfen and various others of her generation from Girton and further afield, but many more were locals who knew her from childhood, and friends and acquaintances of her father. Wilde half expected to see Sir Oswald Mosley and Lord Londonderry among the great men, but there was no sign of them, although Slievedonard was there. Dave Johnson had not put in an appearance, but Horace Dill had. He stood alone at the back of the church, avoiding any chance of an encounter with the dead woman’s father.

  How many of those here were on the list that Nancy had found locked away in her father’s office? Wilde and Eaton had spoken about North Sea at length. ‘Perhaps it was merely a distribution list for the magazine,’ Eaton suggested. ‘Perhaps,’ Wilde said, ‘but I would very much like to see it.’

  They had talked, too, about Dorfen. ‘He told us he lived in Pimlico and worked for a London company,’ Wilde said. ‘Claimed he was on the first train out of Germany when Hitler came to power.’

  Eaton had laughed. ‘He has a villa in the southern suburbs of Munich and is a Sturmbannführer in the Leibstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler, the Führer’s own bodyguard.’

  ‘Good God!’ Wilde was appalled. ‘Then what is he doing here?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s mourning his old friend and lover.’

  ‘And why would he lie to us?’

  ‘Because he’s hiding something.’

  Eaton had not come to the funeral. ‘I didn’t know the girl. I don’t know the family. Don’t think I’d really be very welcome, old boy. You be my eyes.’

  *

  At last the coffin was lowered into place and the gravediggers prepared to shovel the mound of rich East Anglian soil back into the gaping space from which it had been dug.

  Horace Dill sidled up to Wilde and Lydia, dead cigar in the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said without removing the cigar. ‘There are more Nazis here than your average Nuremberg rally.’

  Wilde could smell the alcohol on Dill’s breath. ‘This is not the time, Horace.’

  Lydia took Dill’s arm and tried to walk him away, but he shook her off. ‘I’m not bloody leaving, Lydia!’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ll upset Sir Norman.’

  ‘I was more of a father to her than that fascist swine.’ Dill spat on the ground, then looked up and caught Dorfen’s eye through the crowd of mourners. ‘And what’s that fucking Nazi doing here? Thought we’d got rid of him years ago.’

  Wilde gripped Dill firmly by the arm, marched him into the church, pushed him inside the vestry and slammed the door shut. The key, heavy iron and perhaps hundreds of years old, was in the lock, so he turned it.

  From inside, he heard the sound of hammering, but the door was thick oak and immovable. There were muffled shouts of protest and then, after a minute, silence. Dill would be there until the vicar said goodbye to the mourners and returned. More than long enough to keep him out of trouble.

  Lydia was at Wilde’s elbow as he walked out into the cold air. ‘Can we go now, Tom?’

  ‘We should pay our respects to Sir Norman.’

  Hereward, Sawyer and Lord Slievedonard were walking slowly along the narrow flagstone path to the lychgate. Slievedonard’s jowls wobbled like a water-filled balloon. He bulged inside his vast fur coat. At his side, in a more traditional coat and a great deal more slender and six inches shorter, was Hereward, stooped and ragged. He looked, thought Wilde, as if he’d already consumed a bottle of brandy for breakfast. Briefly, Slievedonard put an arm round his friend’s shoulder, almost enveloping him. On his other side, Sawyer had the swagger of a young lion waiting his turn to lead the pack.

  Wilde moved in. ‘Sir Norman, if I may . . .’

  ‘Professor Wilde.’ Hereward’s voice was weary, resigned and somewhat slurred.

  ‘We wanted to offer our condolences, sir. This is a day of great sadness.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sir Norman,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I understand this is probably not the time or the place, but could we meet again to discuss the circumstances of your daughter’s death?’

  ‘Good God, what is this?’ It was Slievedonard. He pushed Wilde in the chest. ‘What are you doing? Have you no respect? How dare you press yourself onto a father who has just buried his daughter?’

  Hereward put out an arm to restrain Slievedonard. ‘It’s all right, Peter.’

  Sawyer decided to take control. ‘Now, be a good fellow . . .’ he began, trying to guide Wilde away. Wilde shook him off, his attention focused on Hereward. His cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes bloodshot. No man could feign that sort of grief.

  Sawyer looked down his nose at Wilde. With Slievedonard, he manoeuvred Hereward out of the intruder’s path. ‘Come along, Sir Norman. This man isn’t worth a moment of your time.’

  *

  From the church porch, Hartmut Dorfen watched the proceedings with curiosity. He lit a Players cigarette, drew deep on the familiar tobacco, then exhaled a cloud of smoke and vapour into the cold air. Margot would be going frantic, desperate to know his whereabouts. His eyes drifted to Lydia Morris and he nodded.

  Lydia nodded back to Dorfen and he raised his hand in greeting. He started walking towards them and she nudged Wilde.

  ‘He scares you, Lydia.’

  ‘What scares me is that he has lied to me. To both of us. He’s a member of Hitler’s bodyguard, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there isn’t a law against that. And one can understand why a man might wish to keep such a fact to himself when in England.’

  Dorfen looked grave as he approached them. He stamped out his cigarette on the stone path, then took Lydia’s right hand between both his. ‘I can’t bear this, Lydia. This is all far worse than I imagined.’

  ‘Yes, Hart. Yes, it is.’

  He turned to Wilde. ‘Professor.’

  ‘Good morning, Herr Dor
fen.’

  ‘Did I not recognise Professor Dill earlier? You seemed to be manhandling him.’

  ‘You know him?’

  Dorfen laughed. ‘How could I forget the darling old boy? When I was an undergraduate, he wanted to recruit me for the Bolsheviks, of course, but I am afraid I had other things on my mind. Wine, picnics, motor cars and dancing . . .’

  ‘It seems that where he failed to recruit you, he succeeded rather too well with poor Nancy.’

  ‘Is that so? I am shocked.’ Dorfen ploughed on. ‘But then she was always a little mad, wasn’t she?’ His eyes lit up. ‘Tell me, are you both going now to St Wilfred’s Priory? Perhaps I can offer you a lift.’

  ‘I have my motorbike, thank you. Lydia? I’m sure you would prefer the warmth of a car.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll come with you, Tom.’ There was an air of panic about her.

  ‘Herr Dorfen would enjoy your company. You have all those years to catch up on.’

  What was Wilde up to? ‘All right.’ Lydia pulled herself together and smiled graciously. ‘Thank you, Hart. I would be very happy to accept your kind offer.’

  Wilde watched them wander down the path to the cars that lined the road outside the churchyard. Slievedonard’s bright red Maybach was just pulling out, and Sir Norman Hereward’s chauffeur was opening the Rolls Royce to admit his master to the cream hide luxury of its interior.

  As Lydia and Dorfen passed on the way to his little red MG, Wilde saw him nod to Sawyer, who was about to climb into the Rolls beside Hereward. Friends from Munich in an English churchyard. Gritting his teeth, Wilde returned to the church to release Horace Dill from his makeshift prison cell.

  CHAPTER 29

  Margot Greenway, née Langley, was not used to being imprisoned.

  Not that this house in Grünwald, Bavaria, looked remotely like a jail. It was a large villa in the southern suburbs of Munich, with heavy panelling and walls decorated with the trophy antlers from long-forgotten hunts. A comfortable family home, abandoned by its previous owner, a wealthy Jewish doctor. With the coming of the Nuremberg race laws he and his Aryan wife had felt the cold wind of the new Germany and made their exit to healthier climes. And so, with a miminum of fuss, their property had been confiscated and signed over to Hartmut Dorfen. A little gift from the Führer to a favourite.

  Now, though, it was indeed a prison; Margot was not allowed to leave and she was barred from using the telephone. The one time she had got through to England, to speak to Nancy Hereward of all people, she had been cut dead. Since then, the telephone had been unplugged and removed from the house.

  ‘You must not think of this as a prison,’ Wilhelm Brückner had said. ‘It is merely a security measure while Hart is on a special assignment. I’m sure you understand. It is as much for your own good as for his.’

  ‘But for how long, Willy?’ She understood that this must be something important – the Führer’s private office would not have sent Hitler’s chief adjutant to console her otherwise – but she really didn’t see why she should have to stay at home, even if she couldn’t make calls.

  ‘A few days. No more than a few days. There are too many foreigners in Munich, too many spies with inquisitive ears. That is why you must stay here. You are well looked after, are you not, Margot? The food is good?’

  ‘I don’t want food,’ Margot wailed. ‘I want Hart! And I want to go out. It is almost Christmas – I must buy presents for my family.’

  She had run away to Munich because she could not live without Hart, whatever his terms might be. She had told no one, not even Lydia, whom she knew would disapprove. ‘God, Margot,’ she would have said, ‘he’ll only betray you again. It’s in his nature.’ But Lydia didn’t understand the power of passion.

  It had been hard enough calling her mother eighteen months ago. Since then, their relationship had been severely strained. How could her mother understand that if she had to live with Hart’s infidelities, then so be it? There were things he knew about love and a woman’s body that Jeremy Greenway, her husband of a few cold months, could never begin to know. Her mother was mortified, of course, couldn’t bring herself to tell any of their friends. As for Jeremy, she’d heard he had retreated to his estates. Perhaps he was still waiting for her to come home, although her letter had made it abundantly clear she never would.

  And so, after a long, solitary train journey she had arrived here in Munich in the summer of 1935. Hart had been pleased to see her, but his mother had not been at all welcoming.

  ‘You must go home, Miss Langley,’ the older woman had insisted the first time they were alone. ‘You are English; we are German. I sent my son to Cambridge for his education, not to find a wife.’

  Hart had not told his mother Margot was married. Goodness knows she was disapproving enough as it was. He brushed away her concerns. ‘Take no notice of Mutti. Things will settle down.’

  But so far, they hadn’t. Frau Dorfen remained icily distant. And now Hart wasn’t here.

  Brückner shrugged his shoulders. ‘I understand your distress, Margot, truly I do. But you must see it is out of our control. We must do what we are told. Once this is all over, Hart will take you to a spa. It will be like a honeymoon.’

  ‘But it’s almost Christmas, Willy.’

  ‘If you have things in mind for your family, I can telephone the big stores to send you a selection of their wares.’

  ‘You can trust me, Willy. You know I won’t talk to anyone.’

  He raised a sceptical eyebrow. She had already tried to call England before the telephone was disconnected and taken away. He tried to put a sympathetic arm round her, but she shook him off.

  ‘Hart will come home and you will have the best Christmas celebration ever.’

  ‘Willy, please.’

  ‘And Frau Dorfen is sure to come tomorrow to keep you company. She misses her son as much as you do. You can commiserate with each other.’

  ‘She doesn’t like me. She’s very cold towards me.’ Margot pouted.

  ‘Perhaps, like you, she is worried for Hartmut.’

  ‘Can I just make one telephone call? Just one. It’s my mother’s birthday. Please, Willy. Just to let her know that I’m alive and well.’

  *

  St Wilfred’s Priory was welcoming and warm. All the fires had been lit; broad, open fires with slow-burning ash logs. The hall was abuzz with the muted voices of eighty people, all dressed in black, all with a glass in their hand. Footmen were circulating with trays of drinks. The heady fug of midday gin hung over the room. Outside, cars crowded the forecourt.

  Wilde stood in the hall entrance and spotted Lydia. He signalled to her but, deep in conversation with a woman he didn’t know, she didn’t notice. He took a glass of whisky from a footman, then approached another servant. ‘Can you tell me where I might find the lavatory?’

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  *

  Dorfen lounged back in Sir Norman Hereward’s desk chair. He had been trying to get through for ten minutes. The damned English couldn’t build roads; it was no surprise that their telephone system was also a laughing stock. God help them if they ever had to fight a modern war.

  ‘Hello?’ At last. Her voice was wary.

  ‘Grüss Gott, Sophie.’

  ‘Ah, Hartmut, where are you?’

  ‘You know where.’

  ‘And all is well?’

  ‘Well enough, depending on what information you have for me.’

  ‘I have good news . . . a communication from my friend the major.’

  The door was opening. He tensed. ‘Wait, someone is coming in.’ He put his hand over the earpiece.

  *

  When Wilde emerged from the lavatory, still clutching his tumbler of whisky, the corridor was clear. No one was likely to come up here while the funeral drinks were under way. With any luck Hereward’s study would be unlocked.

  As he pushed open the door he heard a voice from within. He looked round the door. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I was looking for the lavatory. Ah, Dorfen, it’s you.’

  ‘Professor Wilde?’ Dorfen kept his hand over the receiver. ‘I am just on the telephone. A business call to my firm in London. Sir Norman has allowed me use of his office.’

  ‘Forgive me. My error.’ Wilde bowed his head and backed out.

  *

  ‘Who was that?’ the Gräfin asked.

  ‘Professor Thomas Wilde – you remember? Don’t worry, Sophie. He’s gone now. So they will meet today, you say. Time? Place?’

  ‘Evening. That is all I know at the moment. Call me later. The major has promised me more details. He will provide them. He would rather cut out his own eyes with a scalpel than fail me in this.’

  ‘I understand, Sophie, but there are problems here, too. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it becomes. We cannot rely on the weather.’

  ‘Patience, darling. Trust me. Call Bremen.’

  ‘You are certain, then? Tonight?’

  ‘They will be together and they will have minimal security.’

  He smiled to himself. This might yet be easier than Bad Wiessee. ‘Servus, Sophie.’

  ‘Servus, Hartmut. And good luck.’

  *

  With his ear pressed to the door, Wilde could make out nothing but the muffled hum of Dorfen’s voice and a woman’s name: Sophie. Everything Dorfen said was built on a mountain of untruth. Whoever Sophie was, she certainly wasn’t a business associate in London, because Hartmut Dorfen didn’t work in London.

  A click. The telephone had been replaced. Wilde moved along the corridor, folded himself into a doorway and waited.

  Dorfen emerged from Hereward’s office. Wilde pressed himself back against the door, heard footsteps on the stone floor, moving away, and then peered out from the doorway to watch Dorfen striding down the corridor back to the hall.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The voice stopped Wilde in his tracks. He turned to find Hereward’s chauffeur.

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid I got a bit lost.’ He smiled. ‘These old English houses – so many passageways and rooms. We don’t have anything like this in America.’