Corpus

by Rory Clements

  ‘Are you trying to find your way back to the hall? Let me take you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, Professor Wilde,’ the chauffeur said, leading the way. ‘I would have thought you’d know your way about by now. You seem to be in and out of the priory.’ He halted at the entrance to the great hall. ‘Well, here we are, sir. Shall I find a footman to replenish your drink?’

  ‘This will suit me fine, thank you.’

  The chauffeur bowed and backed away.

  Wilde strolled into the throng and made a mental note of the faces and names of the great and the good, storing them away. No sign of Slievedonard; he must have made his escape straight after the burial. Dorfen, meanwhile, had joined Lydia by the far window. Wilde wove his way towards them. ‘Forgive me for interrupting your call, Her Dorfen.’

  ‘Please, it was nothing.’

  ‘And is your business difficulty resolved?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. We had a delay in loading a ship. Frantic telephone calls to the buyers. As you must know, any sort of hold-up means a stop in production. The import–export business is always fraught with uncertainty. Rough seas, bloody-minded stevedores, late arrival of cargoes for loading. I’m afraid the trade unions have much to answer for.’

  ‘Where exactly are your offices?’

  ‘A little to the east of Tower Bridge. I’m sure you wouldn’t know the company. It’s not famous.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Dorfen laughed, then gripped Wilde’s shoulder and nodded across the room. ‘Isn’t that chap one of Mosley’s lieutenants?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ve no idea.’ Wilde wasn’t even sure who Dorfen was indicating.

  ‘Well, I know that he’s a damned Blackshirt. I’ve seen his face in the newspapers giving the fascist salute alongside Sir Oswald. What is a man like that doing here?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s the only admirer of Adolf Hitler here.’ Wilde glanced at Lydia and saw her eyebrow rise.

  Lydia sighed. ‘What Tom is trying to say, Hart, is that you are in the middle of a nest of Nazis. Nancy was appalled by her father’s sharp turn to the right.’

  Dorfen’s eyes widened. ‘Is this true? I had no idea.’

  Wilde gave a short laugh. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘My American sense of humour, I’m afraid. Now then, where did you say you were staying?’

  ‘A little inn not far from here. The Bear. I remembered it from my Cambridge days. I might stay another night. Now that I’m up here, it would be pleasant to visit old haunts, perhaps drive up to the North Norfolk coast. It has a strange beauty in winter, does it not?’

  ‘I find this whole area a little strange at the moment. I imagine you heard of last night’s tragic events.’

  Dorfen nodded. ‘My landlady told me all about it at breakfast. Shocking. And coming so soon after the death of Nancy and the Langleys . . .’

  ‘One of the killers is in hospital even now. He’s already talking, apparently, so I’m sure the whole thing will soon be resolved.’

  ‘Then that is good,’ said Hartmut Dorfen.

  But Wilde had the feeling that Dorfen was not at all pleased with the news. And the sudden thought flashed through his mind that the German could have been the other killer. He dismissed it. Dorfen had been drinking with them until quite late. And what possible motive might he have had? He didn’t like Hartmut Dorfen and he didn’t trust him, but that was no reason to think he was a murderer.

  Around them, the room was emptying rapidly. It would be an opportune time to go.

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, Herr Dorfen, but I must take my leave. I don’t think bereaved families need guests to remain too long at these things. Lydia, are you staying or coming back to Cambridge?’

  ‘I’ll come with you, Tom.’ Lydia turned to Dorfen. ‘Let’s not leave it so long now we know you live in England.’

  Dorfen bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘If you are not careful, Lydia Morris, I shall be up to see you every weekend. You are even more beautiful than I recall.’

  ‘Don’t you have enough hearts to break in London?’ Lydia asked tartly.

  His smile turned into a grin. ‘Never!’

  *

  Outside, as Wilde kicked the Rudge into life, Lydia said, ‘I saw Hart talking with your friend Dr Sawyer. They were speaking German.’

  ‘He’s not my friend. Sawyer’s subject is German literature. He speaks German as well as Dorfen speaks English.’

  ‘I want to watch them, Tom.’

  Wilde turned in his seat. ‘What are you talking about, Lydia?’

  ‘Drop me off halfway down the drive.’

  *

  As the hall emptied and the stragglers were hustled away, Dorfen signalled to Sawyer to follow him to Hereward’s study.

  Dorfen leant on the edge of the desk and Sawyer settled back in one of the leather armchairs.

  ‘It’s tonight,’ said Dorfen. ‘Is the vehicle ready?’

  Sawyer nodded his head in a vague direction towards the far side of the house. ‘In the garages. An old Crossley once used by the Black and Tans in Ireland, suitably adapted.’

  ‘Good. And the police? They are convinced Comrade Kholtov is the killer?’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘Indeed. His presence in town was most fortuitous.’

  ‘What’s not so good is that Wilde came in here while I was on the telephone. Said he was lost. But I have a feeling he was looking for something more than a water closet.’

  ‘What do you think he wanted?’

  ‘I think we’d better have words with Hereward.’

  Sawyer pulled himself out of the chair. ‘I’ll get him.’

  CHAPTER 30

  From his seat behind Hereward’s desk, Dorfen gazed out of the study window down across the parkland to the trees, the lake and what lay beyond. Himmler, in his final briefing, had told him he must be sensitive to the feelings of the English. Their aims were not necessarily the same as Germany’s. Some were driven solely by a love of King and country, others by the hope of personal gain.

  The door opened and Sawyer reappeared with Hereward.

  ‘Has everyone gone?’

  ‘Just about. The servants are pushing the last ones out,’ Sawyer said.

  ‘I’ve told the servants to keep to the hall and kitchens,’ Hereward added. He had a large brandy in his hand and was drinking it in gulps.

  ‘I think Wilde came in here looking for something,’ Dorfen said. ‘What could he want?’ He shuffled through the papers on the desk, and then tried the drawers.

  ‘Nothing,’ Hereward said flatly. He had been drinking steadily. His eye twitched. He didn’t like this German, never had done, even when their paths crossed during the younger man’s undergraduate days. God knew why Sawyer seemed so fond of him. Clearly, Dorfen was the man for the job, but there was something about the creature that made Hereward feel ill-at-ease and out of control here in his own home. ‘Nothing that I know of. There’s nothing here.’

  ‘Your desk drawers are locked.’

  Hereward bridled at Dorfen’s tone. ‘Force of habit. I keep a revolver in there, an old Colt.’

  ‘Open the desk.’

  Hereward had never expected all this to be quite so unpleasant. He thought back to that last bitter row with Nancy. Of course, the Nazis were ruthless, but unlike the communists they did not threaten the very existence of landowners like him. Why had she not been able to see that? He walked across to the bookshelf and took down a German-English dictionary. He opened it and removed a small key from the hollowed-out pages. ‘Here you are.’

  Dorfen took the key, turned it in the lock and began rummaging through the drawers. He held up the Colt, pointed it at Hereward, raised an eyebrow, then laughed and lowered the barrel. Looking down into the drawer once more, his eyes lighted on a piece of paper. ‘This.’ He waved it. ‘Why is this here?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was there. It’s just a list of names. An invitation list, perhaps.’

  ‘It says
North Sea at the top.’

  ‘Meaningless to anyone not in the know.’

  Sawyer snatched the paper from Dorfen’s hand, and held it in front of Hereward’s face. ‘Wilde knows something. I told you to have nothing to do with the fucking man, you doddering halfwit.’

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that?’ Hereward lurched unsteadily backwards. ‘After all I’ve done for you!’ Sacrificed poor bloody Cecil Langley, for one thing. For England and the King. Someone always had to be first into the fire, but God it was a heavy price to pay.

  Sawyer looked at him with contempt. ‘Everything you did was for yourself. The games have stopped now, Hereward.’

  ‘I wanted to find out who killed Nancy! I thought Wilde could help. He’s a clever man. You were doing nothing, the police were doing nothing!’

  Dorfen ignored him. Whatever the Reichsführer-SS might have to say on the matter, he had no intention of offering sympathy to this drunken English fool. He turned to Sawyer. ‘We have other business. Wilde said Braithwaite is talking.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Sawyer said. ‘He was as good as dead.’

  ‘We can’t risk it,’ Dorfen said. ‘You know what to do.’ He got up from behind the desk and walked over to Hereward. Without warning, he shot out a hand, grabbed the older man by the throat, and with his other hand forced the muzzle of the Colt against his face. ‘Clear the house. Get rid of all the servants, all the gardeners. Now.’

  Hereward started shaking. This was not how it was supposed to go. He fought to regain some command of the situation. ‘Is it tonight then? What is to happen? What is the next step?’

  Dorfen let go of him and pushed him towards the door. ‘You’ll find out.’

  *

  In the woods, Lydia shivered. Her black wool dress, donned for the funeral, was covered by a smart, long coat that was a great deal less warm than her duffle coat and the biting cold seeped into her small, slender body. Her hands and feet were the worst. She could hardly feel her fingers to hold the binoculars steady.

  Wilde’s binoculars were a finely crafted German instrument with powerful lenses, and gave her a direct line of view into the study of St Wilfred’s Priory. She could see three men there: Dorfen, Sawyer and Hereward. They seemed to be arguing. Then, to her horror, she saw Hartmut Dorfen grab Hereward and press a gun to his face. The older man recoiled and for a moment she thought he had been shot, but the gun was lowered and Hereward was still standing there, slumped as if in shock, but unharmed.

  Tom had begged her not to put herself in danger. She laughed silently, her teeth chattering with cold, not fear. Since finding Nancy’s body the idea of danger had taken on a new meaning. Now she felt nothing but anger. She began to move forward, towards the house.

  *

  The secretary knocked at the door to Stanley Baldwin’s Downing Street study.

  ‘Come in.’

  The secretary, a stiff young man with thin shoulders, entered the smoke-filled room. ‘There is a telephone call for you, sir.’

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘Sir Walter Monckton, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Well, put him through if you would.’ Monckton, a barrister by profession and an old friend of the King, was now His Majesty’s only real confidant. Edward no longer trusted his official aides.

  The telephone call was brief.

  ‘Mr Baldwin, I have been commanded to convey a message from the King.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Walter?’

  ‘His mind is made up. He will abdicate the throne next week.’

  ‘Then there is no more to be said. Thank you, Sir Walter.’ Baldwin replaced the receiver. There was one more task to perform. He had to secure the succession – and he had to do it this very day. He called his secretary back in. ‘Place a call to Royal Lodge. I wish to speak to the Duke of York.’

  *

  Addenbrooke’s Hospital stood a quarter of a mile south of the college on Trumpington Street. The facade was a strange and rather magnificent affair, with colonnades along all three floors, almost like latter-day cloisters, the idea being that patients could be wheeled out on their beds and bathchairs to take the fresh air. At the centre of the frontage was a gatehouse topped by a clock that told the right time only twice a day.

  Wilde parked the Rudge at the kerb and strode to the main entrance.

  ‘I’m looking for the prisoner,’ he told the man at the desk.

  ‘Police, sir?’

  ‘I’m working with Superintendent Bower. Which ward is the man on?’

  ‘Third floor, at the rear. He’s got a room to himself. You’ll see the constable outside.’

  Wilde walked up three flights of stairs, then took the corridor to the back of the building. A police officer was standing outside a closed door. As he approached, the constable stiffened his shoulders and his right hand went to the truncheon at his belt.

  ‘Is Superintendent Bower here?’

  The young constable went yet more rigid in the presence of authority. ‘No, sir. He left half an hour ago.’

  ‘Is Braithwaite talking yet?’

  ‘No, sir. Taking a long time to come round. Out like a drunkard. I have been informed to contact the superintendent as soon as he’s in a condition to talk.’

  ‘Are you armed, constable?’

  ‘I have this.’ He touched the haft of the heavy black truncheon. ‘Don’t worry, the prisoner is bound. He won’t get away from me.’

  ‘I’ll just take a look at him.’

  ‘May I ask your name, sir?’

  ‘Wilde. Professor Wilde to you, officer. I’m part of the wider investigation.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  *

  Braithwaite was secured to the bed with straps buckled across his ankles and chest and one wrist cuffed to the metal bedstead. The other was bandaged and had a splint up along his wrist and forearm. His eyes were closed, his battered mouth was open and he was snoring. His head, which had borne the brunt of the fall, was wrapped in bandages. His skinny chest was bare and there were dressings on the abdomen and side of the torso. Like his face, now sallow and blotched, there were the blue markings of a collier etched into his hairless chest skin. Blood was still seeping from his wounds, into the bandages.

  Wilde looked on dispassionately. Braithwaite still carried the marks of the injuries Wilde had caused him when he attacked Lydia. The torn ear, the broken teeth. Wilde hoped that underneath the hospital sheet the man’s balls were still swollen and blackened from his kick.

  The constable, who had accompanied Wilde into the room, looked with curiosity at the patient. ‘He doesn’t look at all well, sir.’

  Wilde leant forward and spoke firmly into the patient’s ear. ‘Braithwaite?’

  The wounded man moved as though he heard, trying to turn on his side, but he was restricted by the straps and cuff. Wilde was not sure whether he was responding to the voice. He displayed no sign of waking.

  ‘Braithwaite, we need to talk.’

  The patient emitted a rattling groan. His body was covered in a film of sweat. The room was warmed by a cast-iron radiator and was as hot as a Kew glasshouse.

  Wilde patted Braithwaite lightly on the cheek to rouse him, then a little harder. The man’s eye twitched. ‘Braithwaite, wake up. I need information.’

  The wounded man turned away again, still comatose.

  Wilde turned to the constable. ‘Is this the best he’s been?’

  ‘As far as I know, sir. I stayed outside when the superintendent was here with him.’

  ‘Did Mr Bower say when he’d be back?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, be careful, officer.’ He turned to leave. ‘And remember, whoever harmed him might want to finish what he started.’

  The constable appeared startled. Had he really not thought of that, wondered Wilde. How was this poor sap to protect himself or his charge when the only weapon he had was a wooden cosh? Something had to be done to keep Braithwaite safe. If they were to get any information fr
om him, there was little time to lose.

  *

  At the reception desk, he used the telephone to call the police station. Eventually Superintendent Bower came on the line.

  ‘Yes, professor?’

  ‘I’m at the hospital. Braithwaite has only one unarmed officer outside his room.’

  Bower gave an irritated sigh. ‘What’s it to do with you, Wilde?’

  ‘I found the man. I’d very much like to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what your constable said. Has it occurred to no one that Braithwaite might be a target?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You have a vivid imagination, Wilde – but your point is taken. I’m going down there myself shortly. I’ll see the man is well protected.’

  *

  Wilde looked in at the Bull Hotel, and immediately spotted Philip Eaton, talking on the concierge’s telephone. Eaton saw Wilde, put up a finger in acknowledgement. ‘Filing copy,’ he mouthed.

  Wilde ordered a whisky and sat down on a large leather sofa to wait. In a couple of minutes, Eaton put down the telephone and came over. ‘Sorry about that. The Times pays my wages, so needs must.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘The events of last night at Brandham Hall. The deeds of the hero professor . . .’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned me?’

  ‘Not by name. Anyway, by Monday, my next publication day, there’ll be wall-to-wall Edward and Wallis. In the meantime, what have you got?’

  ‘I’ve just been to the hospital. Braithwaite’s still unconscious, but I have to tell you, Eaton: one constable, no firearm, I walked straight in.’

  ‘That’s bad. We need to keep him alive for the hangman. I’ll speak to Bower.’

  ‘I’ve already done so. He sounded less than interested.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll put pressure on him.’ Eaton paused. ‘One thing – are you convinced Braithwaite was English?’

  ‘Yes. No doubts. If he’s an actor, he should be in Hollywood. Why?’

  Eaton nodded. ‘I’m just surprised there’s no trace of him in any records . . .’ He changed tack. ‘What happened at the funeral?’