‘What is it?’ Wilde demanded.
‘The doctors are in there,’ the constable said. ‘He’s taken a turn for the worse.’
Wilde pushed open the door. Two doctors were examining Braithwaite. A nurse stood by the window, shaking her head.
‘What happened?’ Wilde addressed the question to the elder of the two doctors, a man in his fifties.
‘Who are you?’
‘Professor Thomas Wilde.’
‘You knew the patient?’
‘Yes. I was the man who found him on the road.’
‘Then you saved his life,’ the senior doctor said. ‘But not for long, I’m afraid.’
‘What happened?’
‘Bleed in the brain probably. A fall from a car? Head wounds that look as if he’s been hit with a blunt instrument? God knows what the damage was inside. I thought we had saved him, but you never know with these sorts of injuries.’
‘Are you sure that’s what happened? No one could have got in here?’
The doctor looked over Wilde’s shoulder at the policeman in the doorway. ‘Constable?’
The policeman shook his head.
‘Let’s leave it to the post-mortem examination,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s a bit of bruising about the face I don’t like, but I suppose that could have occurred when he fell. Thing is, I hadn’t noted it before.’
Damn you, Bower; damn you, Eaton, Wilde cursed. The police were supposed to have doubled the guard on the hospital. Braithwaite was dead and Wilde was as certain as he could be that someone had helped him on his way. And where the hell was Lydia? And Eaton?
*
Wilde ran the short distance to the police station in St Andrew’s Street where he found Superintendent Bower eating a steak and kidney pie at a desk. His tie was alive with fresh gravy stains. He looked up through his thick glasses at Wilde.
‘Leslie Braithwaite is dead.’
‘I know.’
‘How did the killer get past your men?’
Bower waved his fork at Wilde. ‘Calm down. I had officers there at all times, in shifts. I was even there myself shortly before he died. It seems the man simply didn’t come round. It happens with head injuries. A bleed on the brain is likely, so I’m told.’
‘Are you not the least suspicious, given the circumstances?’
For a moment a flash of anger passed across Bower’s usually benign eyes, somewhere deep behind the heavy Bakelite spectacles. ‘Be careful, professor. Be very careful. I could already have had you arrested for impersonating a police officer during your last visit to Addenbrooke’s. Don’t try me.’
Wilde fought to keep his temper under control. ‘It’s too late for Braithwaite, I suppose, but I am very concerned for the whereabouts of Miss Lydia Morris. We were due to meet at three thirty and she’s been missing now for three hours.’ Wilde told Bower about the funeral, Lydia’s excursion in the woods, the rendezvous point.
‘Perhaps she was invited in for cocktails or a cup of tea? You don’t seem to be thinking very clearly, professor. Did it not occur to you to knock at their door and ask after her?’
‘And say what? “Oh, are you holding Lydia Morris captive?” You raid the house, superintendent. Get your men to search the bloody place!’ Wilde had begun to shout.
‘Do you not think Sir Norman Hereward might take umbrage at being treated in such a manner, especially on the day he has buried his only daughter? Do you not stop to wonder what in the name of God you were both up to, spying on people in their own home, on private land? You’ve taken leave of your senses, Wilde!’
Wilde took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. ‘There have been four murders, probably five, including Braithwaite. You know as well as I do, superintendent, that there is something bigger here.’
‘There is certainly a conspiracy – but if you think it involves St Wilfred’s Priory, you have to give me evidence. We have no reason to connect Braithwaite, a known communist, with the place. Kholtov is another matter – and we will find him. Now, I’ve been patient with you long enough, professor—’
Wilde interrupted. He had nothing left to lose. ‘Nancy Hereward left a letter. She found something in the desk drawer in her father’s office – a list of names, senior members of the ruling class. Members of something called North Sea.’
Shock registered in Bower’s eyes. ‘What? Where is this letter? What does it say?’
‘I have it safe. She was spying on her father. I suspect she was sent to spy on him by her communist friends. I take it you know of the North Sea newsletter, Mr Bower?’
‘It’s some sort of Nazi publication. But you’re talking about National Socialists, Mr Wilde. All the evidence we have points to a communist conspiracy. Kholtov, he’s the man we want. The search for him has gone nationwide.’
This was going nowhere. ‘Get back to your bloody steak and kidney pie, superintendent.’ Wilde headed for the door.
Bower’s parting shot rang in his ears. ‘Don’t even think of trespassing on Sir Norman’s land again or I’ll have you in a police cell.’ He pointed a warning finger.
Wilde stopped. ‘And that’s the sum of your fears?’
The policeman sighed, and lowered his voice. ‘I know you’re not stupid. Something is going on and we’re all worried. But you and your friend Miss Morris flailing around like a topsail in a squall will do no one any good. I suggest you go back to her house – and you’ll probably find she’s already there. This is England, Mr Wilde, not Germany or Russia. People do not get lifted off the streets and carted away to a Moscow prison never to be heard of again. Have a whisky with Miss Morris and I’m sure things will all look a great deal more rosy in the morning.’
‘Superintendent?’
‘Yes, professor?’ His voice was weary now.
‘Go fuck yourself.’
CHAPTER 34
By 7 p.m., the sky above Cambridge was dark, overcast and biting, with the threat of snow in the air. Menace hung heavy, the shadows among the old houses and majestic university buildings sinister rather than comforting.
Where in this baleful town could Lydia be? He’d already been past her office and seen no light on. Now, he hurried back to try again. In Bene’t Street, he caught his breath as he gazed up at her window. It was in darkness. The door at the side of the shop was locked. He tried the bell, but there was no response. She wasn’t at home; she wasn’t here. He strode to the college and found Scobie in the porters’ lodge. ‘Have you seen Lydia Morris?’
‘No, professor, I’m afraid not.’
‘Has she left a message?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’
‘Let me use your telephone.’ He called Dave Johnson but the call just rang and rang. Then he tried St Wilfred’s Priory.
The phone was answered by Hereward himself.
‘Sir Norman, this is Tom Wilde. I was wondering – is Lydia Morris with you?’
‘Why would she be?’ The voice was curt and defensive; an edge of suspicion.
‘Is she there? Have you seen her?’
‘No to both questions, Wilde.’
The line went dead. Wilde looked at Scobie. These men missed very little.
‘Is everything all right, professor?’
‘No, Scobie, no, it’s not all right. Is Horace Dill in his rooms?’ Perhaps Dill would know where she was. If he was sober. He cared for Lydia. A man like Horace Dill might just know what was going on.
‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed him. He left an hour since on the London train. Won’t be back until Epiphany. A lecture to deliver in London, apparently, and then Christmas in Scotland. Left in a bit of a hurry, so we had no notice of his going.’ Scobie sniffed. ‘Funny thing is, sir, an old pupil of his, German gentleman by name of Dorfen, was asking after him only ten minutes ago.’
‘Dorfen was here?’
‘Indeed, sir. I told Mr Dorfen exactly what I told you and off he went.’
‘Thank you.’ Wilde fished in his pocket for
a florin. All he had was a shilling. He placed it in the man’s proffered hand. ‘Forgive me, I’m a little short just now, Scobie.’
‘Very kind of you, sir. Seasons greetings to you.’
As he turned away, Wilde swore beneath his breath. Horace Dill leaving in a hurry. Escaping. But escaping what? Dorfen, perhaps . . .
With Dill gone and no help forthcoming from Bower, he’d have to return to St Wilfred’s Priory. If Lydia wasn’t here in Cambridge, then she had to be there, whatever Hereward said. She had to be there, because that was where he had left her.
And where was bloody Eaton?
*
Sir Norman Hereward sat in his study, alone in the empty house, staring blankly at the dark, uncurtained window, his right hand loosely gripping his brandy glass. Should he go to her? Not yet. She’d be all right.
He had spotted Lydia from his bedroom window creeping about behind the garages. He had left the house by the side door, moving silently across the grass and she hadn’t seen him until he reached out and grabbed her by the arm.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just going for a walk.’
‘You were spying,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? I was just—’
He was close to her now, breathing alcohol fumes in her face. ‘You were spying. Come with me.’ He dragged her by the arm away from the garages into the woodland behind.
‘Please, no!’
He tugged her even harder, bruising her arm. ‘God damn you! You have no idea what you’re dealing with here. Do as I say or things will go a great deal worse.’
‘Is that what happened to Nancy?’
‘Move, damn you.’
In the woods, not far from the house was an old ice house, a cellar, half buried in the ground, where ice had been shovelled in winter for use by the kitchens in summer. Now it lay hidden beneath a century’s growth of ivy and brambles and roots.
Lydia struggled, but she was small and Sir Norman was still strong and he managed to propel her easily through the undergrowth that curtained the narrow entrance. Thorns and twigs scraped her face as he pushed her deeper into the dark space, eventually flinging her to the floor. He lit a match, then another. Above her, rusty hooks once used for game and fish were embedded in the ceiling. On the stone floor, there was an old ragged coil of rope. Taking a ball of heavy garden twine from his pocket, he bent down towards her and tried to grab her wrists. The match flame died. She scrambled back in the dark, away from him, but he struck her face a sharp blow with the flat of his hand.
She screamed. He hit her again.
‘If you scream, they will come here and they will kill you. Do as I say and you will live. Hold out your hands because I am going to bind them and save your life. The choice is yours.’
‘You know they killed Nancy?’ Lydia said desperately.
‘I know what they’ll do to you.’
‘Let me go, please,’ she begged. ‘It’s not too late. We have to tell the police . . .’
He grabbed her hands roughly and pulled her closer. ‘The problem with your generation,’ he hissed, spitting his words directly into her face, ‘is that you don’t understand duty and honour. Loyalty to the King, observance of vows made, whatever the cost. My sons died for those beliefs. Do you think I would put your life above theirs?’
‘Sir Norman, I beg you, it’s not too late . . .’ Lydia pleaded.
But he said no more. He bound her wrists and ankles and secured her with the rope to an iron ring embedded in the wall. He thrust a handkerchief into her mouth and wound more twine around her face so that she could not spit it out. She could barely breathe.
He lit another match and held it close to her face. ‘I will come back for you when it is over. When the King is saved from the ungodly traitors. And then you will thank me. You will thank me for saving your life. And, God willing, you will thank me for saving England.’
The match died, and he was gone.
*
It was dark now. No moonlight or starlight penetrated the ice house. How many hours had she been here? She lay curled up, barely able to move, struggling for every shallow breath, choking on the handkerchief. She still wore the clothes she had worn to the funeral: black dress, smart coat, gloves. Cold. So cold: she could not survive here long. A bullet in the head would be a more humane way to die than this.
She tried to think of something else, anything to soothe and slow her need for air in her lungs. She thought of Tom Wilde and how he would be worried about her. Tom would come to find her, she told herself. Would it ever start between them, she and Tom? she wondered. He was so dry; she was so passionate about everything she did. No, it was unfair to call him dry. He concealed his passions: a melancholy man, a man who had lost his wife and child, a man seeking some salvation. But he had loved before; perhaps he could love again.
And then there was Hartmut Dorfen. They had always known of his dark side. When they found him between Nancy’s legs on the banks of the river, with Margot close by, she wondered whether he had wanted Margot to see. Had enjoyed her distress.
Hartmut had been their friend, their lover, their destroyer. Lover to them all, she acknowledged to herself, here in this dank, dark hole, with the air in her lungs thin and painful. Of course she hadn’t admitted it to Nancy or Margot. But Hart had had them all that summer. One by one. Perhaps Margot had suspected. Perhaps that was what drove her insane. She hadn’t understood that a man like Hartmut Dorfen couldn’t be faithful to one woman. It wouldn’t even occur to him. Why not? You all want me? Why would I not have other women if I want to?
Her breathing shortened by the second. What would happen first? Panic and then unconsciousness, she imagined. She must not panic, because that would consume oxygen. She must keep her eyes closed, not even try to move. Ignore the cold. Try to sleep. You are a cat trapped in a cupboard, she told herself. Curl up, relax, wait. Hereward will come back. He said he would come back.
*
In the shadows on the other side of the road from the college, Hartmut Dorfen smoked a cigarette and watched Thomas Wilde going into the porters’ lodge. He was still smoking, still watching, as the professor came out.
Horace Dill’s absence had saved his life. Dorfen had arrived at the college intending to kill him. The settling of an old score, a small strike for National Socialism against the insanity of Bolshevism. A balm for Sir Norman Hereward’s vengeful soul. Wilde would not be so fortunate. Dorfen considered his next move.
He nodded towards a car parked fifty yards down Trumpington Street. Sawyer, in the driving seat, nodded back. Dill might have escaped temporarily, but they had killed Braithwaite, and now they would do for Wilde.
*
Wilde made his way to the Bull in case Eaton was there. He left a message and began loping through the cold streets home.
He heard footsteps behind him, the sharp tap of metal-toed shoes on paving stones. He looked round, alert for danger, to see the familiar figures of Roger Maxwell and Eugene Felsted, on the other side of the road. They crossed the road, weaving slightly.
‘Merry Christmas, professor!’
‘Not now, Maxwell.’
They were dressed as private eyes: thin ties and fedoras.
‘We’re on our way to a fancy-dress party. You told us to think like detectives, so we thought we’d dress like them.’ Felsted was unsteady on his feet.
Wilde tapped his wristwatch. ‘Look, I must go.’
‘Actually, sir,’ Maxwell said, ‘we’re going your way.’
They attached themselves to him like limpets to a ship’s hull. Keeping pace with him. Quickening their strides as he quickened his.
And then they were outside his house. Next door, Cornflowers was still dark. Wilde turned, held up his hand to say this is really where we part ways, and was confronted by a pair of guns.
*
For a brief moment, Dorfen had thought of abandoning his plan when the two young men accosted Wilde. But word had come through that al
l loose ends must be tidied up, and this interfering professor was undoubtedly a loose end. He had been snooping at St Wilfred’s; he had tried to force himself on Hereward, he had even been to Kilmington – and he had been a great deal too interested in the link between Dorfen and Sawyer. Wilde could not be allowed to return to St Wilfred’s Priory. Tonight nor any other night.
‘Through the gate.’ He swivelled the pistols towards Maxwell and Felsted. ‘And you.’
‘What is this, Dorfen?’ Wilde was horrified.
‘Nothing to concern you.’ Dorfen extended his arm and thrust the hard, dark barrel of one of the guns into Maxwell’s face. ‘Now. And you’ll all be safe.’
Wilde knew Dorfen would have no compunction in shooting all three of them once they were out of sight in the passage between his house and Lydia’s.
‘You have no argument with these two young men . . .’ Wilde began, but Dorfen’s finger began to close on the trigger. ‘OK, OK . . . we’ll do what you say.’
‘I say, this is past a joke,’ Felsted said, not even trying to laugh. ‘Those guns look real.’
Wilde gripped Felsted by the shoulder. ‘It’s no joke,’ he said. He thought of blood, of bone fragments and brain tissue. ‘Run,’ he said in Felsted’s ear, then louder. ‘Run – for God’s sake!’ He pushed at the boy, but Felsted was frozen. Maxwell, too. Trapped by disbelief and fear. A car pulled up, a little red two-seater, and the driver emerged. ‘Sawyer!’ Wilde shouted. ‘Get help!’ But Sawyer, too, had a gun.
The two young men looked at Sawyer in shock. They knew him well from college. But it was Sawyer who, without a word, grasped their arms and pushed them, struggling, through the gate.
*
In the darkness of the garden, in the lee of both houses, they were invisible from the road.
‘Tie them up,’ Wilde pleaded, as Dorfen pushed him roughly behind them. ‘Gag them. Leave them here. They’re nobodies – they can’t harm you.’
‘Face the wall, in line. Nothing will happen.’
The voice was neither sharp, nor curt. Soft, reassuring.
‘Does Margot know what you’re doing? What you’ve already done?’
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