Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant it looked as though he was fed gas. Not town gas, either – but some kind of blistering agent. I was wondering: can you recall the exact time he left your party? Did he have his own car – or did you lay one on for him?’

  ‘You sound like a policeman, Wilde.’

  ‘He was my neighbour in college.’

  Hardiman shrugged. ‘You saw me at the party, buddy. How can I remember what time some little science guy left? I could barely remember my own name come morning.’

  ‘I spoke to Dexter Flood today. He’s interested.’

  ‘Then you better see what you can find, I guess.’

  ‘Perhaps your wife knows.’ He noticed that Peggy had been listening in to the conversation. ‘Mrs Hardiman?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t think I noticed the man at all. Was he alone?’

  ‘No, he had a woman friend with him, name of Mrs Winch. Fanny Winch.’

  Peggy frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m awfully sorry. No, they mean nothing to me. But you know, Mr Wilde, there were over two hundred people at the party, and to be honest with you, I didn’t know who three-quarters of them were.’

  ‘I’ll call Dexter myself,’ Hardiman said. ‘Make some inquiries of my own. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Tom. You hear anything else, let me know, right?’ Hardiman stuck an expensive cigar in his mouth, and then offered one to Wilde, which he declined. ‘What I do recall, Tom, was that you were mighty interested in the history of this fine house.’

  Clarissa had had enough of being excluded from the conversation. ‘Are you going to hog Professor Wilde all night, Milt?’ she broke in. ‘Come on, Tom, dance with me.’ She signalled to a servant. ‘Put on some band music. Dance music. And turn it up loud.’

  Wilde danced on the lawn with Clarissa. Hardiman did not dance. He nursed his brandy and ginger ale in silence, watching the dancers through a wreath of cigar smoke.

  After the number ended, Clarissa led Wilde back to the table. Hardiman grunted at them. ‘Tom still wants to know about the house, Clarissa.’

  ‘Then tell him all you know, Milt.’

  ‘Why don’t you show him? Let him see for himself.’

  Clarissa was still holding Wilde’s hand. ‘Well?’

  ‘Lead on.’

  ‘I’ll keep your drinks warm for you,’ Hardiman said.

  Clarissa led him into the hall. ‘Apparently this place was in ruins,’ she said. ‘They were talking of pulling it down after the war because no one wanted it. Or they couldn’t afford it.’

  Wilde ran his fingers along the smooth, sensuous grain of the ancient panelling. He paused before the magnificent stone fireplace, as high as it was wide, deserving of a single blazing ash log on an autumn day. He gazed up at the slightly threadbare tapestry of some mythical scene dominating one wall. ‘Well, he’s done a good job,’ Wilde said in honest admiration. ‘Good restorative work, I’d say. It’s easy to get Tudor houses wrong.’

  ‘There’s plenty more upstairs. Come on.’ In front of them the curved staircase, crafted from oak, beckoned. They climbed to the first floor. On the south side was a long room, perhaps fifty feet, with a ceiling of intricate plasterwork and bookcases full of leather-bound volumes from Italy and Spain and England. Wilde wondered how many of them had actually been read. How he would love to dig deep between their dusty covers for a few weeks or months in search of hidden gems of history and art. Perhaps that was not such an impossible idea.

  The insanity of his situation struck him. He had been asked to spy on Milt Hardiman – and to spy with him on the Cavendish. But spy on him doing what? Playing tennis, drinking brandy and displaying vicious anti-Semitism? None of that, as far as Wilde knew, was a crime.

  ‘The boy, Theo . . .’

  ‘Is a spoilt brat.’

  ‘He has an imaginary friend called Bee, it seems.’

  ‘Really? I just ignore the tedious little swine.’ Clarissa pushed open a door. ‘And these,’ she said, ‘are my rooms. Enter, dear Professor Wilde.’

  ‘A lady’s private boudoir is exactly that, Miss Lancing – private.’

  ‘I need to change out of my tennis things.’

  ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’

  ‘And I might need a little assistance with hooks and buttons.’

  ‘I shall fetch you a maid.’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Oh, just wait outside then. Don’t run off now.’

  As he waited, he leant his back against the wall. He felt apprehensive. He looked outside into the darkening sky. A few hundred yards in the distance was a group of outbuildings. One of them, an old barn, had lights on. There was a vehicle there – a van, and two men, carrying something heavy inside. Farm workers, he supposed. Working late.

  Clarissa’s door opened behind him. ‘Oh, Professor Wilde,’ she called. ‘Where are you? I’m ready.’ Her eyes peered around the jamb. ‘I just need one last button seeing to.’

  He sighed, and took two steps back to her door. She was standing in front of him naked and unashamed.

  Her body was perfect in every detail: no man could have torn his eyes away. His gaze dropped from her eyes, down the slender contours of her neck, to the twin pink buds of her nipples. His eyes held there a moment, then dropped again down to the light, wispy curls of her sex and her endless, flawless legs. Desire surged and he knew he was lost.

  ‘Well? Are you going to help me with that button or are you just going to stand there as though you’ve seen a ghost?’

  ‘I see no button.’

  ‘Then I suggest you come and find it.’

  CHAPTER 25

  The hours ticked by and the aeroplane droned ever on. Unable to relax, unable to read her book, all Lydia could do was gaze from the window at the lights of German towns below. She was still not safe. The five-hundred-mile flight was scheduled to take five hours; they would not be out of German airspace until the last half hour.

  Kriminaldirektor Kirsch could raise the alarm at any moment, of course, once he realised that she had not arrived at Ravensbrück concentration camp. It would be a matter of minutes to work out that she had taken this flight from Tempelhof to Zurich; she had used her own passport and name. And all the while the plane was over Germany, the pilot could be radioed and told to land at the nearest airfield. It was a Lufthansa flight. German airline, German pilot. There would be no argument.

  This time she had no companion, which was a small blessing. But nor did she have any other way of passing the eternity of the flight. She took a pen from her bag and her small black notebook. Unconnected words: blood, sky, darkness, fear, stone, dome, Baumgarten. A poem without verbs. She tore the page from the book and crumpled it in her hand and stuffed it in the ashtray.

  She looked at her watch. They had been going four and a three-quarter hours now and the ride had become increasingly bumpy as they met the mountains south-west of Munich. And then, at last, she felt the nose tip down and the descent began.

  A quarter of an hour later, they landed and the plane taxied to the terminal: the word ZÜRICH was painted in large letters on the main building. But it was not until the engine had stopped and the steps had been placed against the doorway that she felt safe. Now all she had to do was get to England.

  In the terminal building, the clock told her it was 10 p.m. Swiss time. She spoke to the Swissair desk and the uniformed clerk told her there would be a flight to London the next day, at midday, and yes, there would most certainly be a seat available for her. In the meantime, would madam wish for a hotel room? A hotel room was exactly what she wanted, along with a bottle of decent wine, good food and a telephone.

  *

  ‘You’ve come all the way from Germany then, Dr Haas? Things got a little too hot, huh?’

  ‘Given my circumstances, what would you have done, Mr Hardiman?’

  ‘If it was truly my home, I’d have stayed put. But you Jews, you’re just guests everywhere – and then you want to move the furnit
ure around. You attach yourself to the host body like a parasite and then mutate it.’

  Geoff Lancing slammed his hand down on the table. ‘I say, steady on, Milt!’

  Eva put her own hand over Geoff’s. ‘Don’t, Dr Lancing. I can look after myself.’

  Hardiman glared at her. ‘Go on then. Let’s hear your sob story.’

  ‘I think you know exactly what is happening. I lost my work and my home. My child was deprived of his schooling and his friends. Things will only get worse.’

  ‘These are small points. Inconsequential. Hitler’s a good man. He’s given Germany back its pride. Nobody messes with Germany these days.’

  ‘There will be a war. A terrible war.’ Eva was beginning to shake.

  ‘Oh hell, yes, there’ll be a war all right. But terrible? God no. No trenches this time. The whole thing will be over in weeks. In the meantime, you’re here along with plenty of others like you. You’re hoping for a job at the Cavendish, yes? Will that be forthcoming, Geoff?’

  Geoff was fighting to regain his composure. ‘I don’t know,’ he said coldly. ‘But I suppose the runes aren’t that good. Even Leo Szilard couldn’t get a position. Rutherford wouldn’t have him.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Szilard. The chain-reaction guy.’

  Geoff Lancing looked surprised. ‘You are well informed, Milt.’

  Hardiman waved his hand and changed the subject. ‘Say, where’s your friend and your sister? They must be looking around the house in fine detail. Go find them, Peggy.’

  His wife stayed put. ‘They’ll be back in their own sweet time, darling. I think Clarissa knows her way around well enough.’

  Hardiman smirked. ‘Knows her way around every man in Hollywood. Didn’t get her the Gone with the Wind number though, did it? Can’t swing it when I’m not writing the cheques.’

  Peggy gave his hand a sharp slap. ‘That’s a horrible slur, Milt.’

  ‘Which one – the sleeping around or her failure without my backing?’

  ‘Take it all back this instant.’ Two spots of pink had appeared above Peggy’s high cheekbones. ‘Apologise to Geoff for saying such a thing about his sister, who is our beloved guest.’

  ‘OK, let me correct myself. Clarissa Lancing is as pure as fresh-fallen snow and the world’s most talented actress to boot. So please, Geoff, accept my apologies if I gave any impression to the contrary.’

  Lancing forced a laugh. ‘I think I know my dear sister well enough. Ah – talk of the devil.’

  Wilde and Clarissa had just emerged from the house.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Hardiman said nastily. ‘Don’t they look flushed.’

  *

  Wilde needed to get away from this place. ‘Milt,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s time to go. I have another guest and it would be too rude of me to leave him any longer.’

  ‘OK.’ Hardiman shrugged. ‘I’ll have to whip your ass another day.’

  ‘Forgive me for dodging the men’s singles. It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘I’ll meet you man to man soon enough. And I always win. But in doubles you’re only as good as your partner’s backhand – isn’t that right?’

  Wilde took his leave of Peggy Hardiman. She clutched his hands as though he were an old and treasured friend. ‘You don’t get away from us so easily, Professor Wilde,’ she said. ‘We’re off to the Newmarket races tomorrow – you must come.’

  Wilde was about to decline, to say he had other things to do; but Jim had asked him to stay close to these people. So had Eaton. Thus far he had discovered nothing apart from Milt Hardiman’s anti-Semitism and poor sportsmanship, but both the British secret service and Jim Vanderberg believed there was more to Hardiman than met the eye. So Wilde had a responsibility. ‘I’d love to come,’ he said.

  ‘Pick you up at noon then. We’ll have lunch there. Don’t forget your field glasses.’

  His departure from Clarissa was more awkward. He thought of Jim Vanderberg’s warning words. How the hell was he supposed to stay away from her? He was a human being, not a saint. Jim might have seen her on the silver screen, but he hadn’t had to endure her naked body offered up to him.

  She presented her cheek for a kiss. ‘Sleep well, Professor Wilde,’ she said as he gave her the lightest of pecks. ‘Keep those pyjama buttons done up tonight.’

  *

  Wilde, Geoff Lancing and Eva Haas were driven back into Cambridge in the Hispano-Suiza. Wilde sat in the front alongside the driver. In the back, Eva was smoking a cigarette, frantically blowing smoke from the window. Whatever attraction there was between her and Geoff, it was no concern of his, yet he wondered how there could be anything between them when all her thoughts must be on her missing son.

  He wondered, too, about the harsh reception she had endured from Milt Hardiman. Why had he been so overtly unpleasant to a woman he had never met before? Was Wilde missing something?

  He turned round to Geoff. ‘I went to St John’s to talk to Torsten Hellquist, Geoff. No sign of him. I don’t suppose you know where he’s got to?’

  Had he run for safety, as he intimated? Lancing also had rooms at St John’s, close to the Swede.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him either. I imagine he needed to get away. He must have been devastated by Paul Birbach’s death. Well, we all were, of course. But with Hellquist, it was a great deal more intense. In science, they were like two halves of a whole. In their personalities, too. You know he had been hoping to follow Birbach to California?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Not sure Oppenheimer was interested though. He had worked with Birbach before, but doesn’t know Hellquist.’

  Wilde sensed Eva’s interest. She was saying nothing, but she was listening. He rather thought that Frau Dr Haas might be very good at listening.

  *

  Albert Haas did not understand the people who were taking care of him. They came and they went. They brought him strange food and they spoke in a foreign tongue that he did not understand. He had learned a little English at school, but these people spoke so fast. Occasionally one of them, usually the woman, would break into her poor German to give him an order: zu bett gehen or gehen sie schlafen – go to bed, go to sleep.

  He understood he must be in England. All he had been told was that if he was a good boy he would see his mother very soon. He had been told he should write her a letter, and so he had done so. It was very formal – addressed to My Dear Mother. Not Mummy or Mum. It said he was being well treated in his new country, that he was being fed well, that she must not worry.

  But he was worried, because he had no idea when he would see her again. He had been so scared when the two men – one in uniform, one in a suit – and the pretty woman in a bright summer frock took him off the train. For an hour, he had been held in a room at the station, alone. The label around his neck was removed and he was told he would have new papers. His name would now be Friedrich Schulz. He must remember it and use it at all times if asked. It was the only way to get him to safety in England, he was told.

  He obeyed, of course. He always obeyed adults. It was the way he had been brought up.

  From the little station room, he had seen the train depart. Then another one had arrived and he was taken to it, accompanied by the pretty woman with the fair hair. She was German like him. ‘You must call me mummy,’ she had told him as they settled into their seats. ‘Until your mother arrives in England. Do you understand, Friedrich?’

  ‘Yes,’ he had said, nodding uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ she said, frowning. ‘Try again.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. I understand.’ It seemed wrong to call anyone else by that name, especially one as stern as this woman. And surely a boy had only one mummy?

  At the end of the train journey, he had been taken to a hotel. Seagulls perched on the ledge outside the window, and in the distance he could see ships and the sea. There was no sign of the other children from the transport.

  The following day, after breakfast, he an
d the woman had embarked on a ship. They were at sea for hours – he lost track of time. When, at last, they reached land, the woman had put him in a car with another woman, who was not German. He was told he must call her Mrs Jones. She spoke little on the journey. All she did was hand him a sandwich with some meat of a kind he had never tasted before. He was hungry so he ate it, but he did not like it.

  And now here he was, still waiting. They were not unkind; they did not hit him. But nor were they warm towards him. Why was he not allowed out? All he could do was look out of the window.

  Even though he was not big for his age, he was a brave and clever boy. Every night, he said a prayer that Mutti would come for him in the morning, and then he cried himself to sleep.

  *

  Lydia’s call was put through very quickly. ‘Mr Eaton?’

  ‘Miss Morris! Where are you?’

  ‘Zurich, Mr Eaton. I am coming back to England tomorrow. I need to give you some information. I’m not sure it can wait.’

  ‘Are you in a hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I implore you, say nothing more. Whatever it is, it will have to wait until tomorrow. Are you coming by air?’

  ‘I could go to the consulate in the morning, call you from there?’

  ‘No, please don’t do that. You must wait.’

  ‘Swissair then, twelve noon departure. I’m not sure about the time of arrival.’

  ‘I’ll find out and meet you.’

  ‘Would you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Call Tom, and tell him I’ll be home tomorrow evening.’

  CHAPTER 26

  The morning was less bright. A cool wind had got up overnight, but in the porter’s lodge, Scobie assured Wilde there would be no rain. ‘My father’s a ploughman, Professor, finest in the Fens in his day. No one reads the Cambridge weather like a Fenland farmboy. He says there won’t be a drop of rain all week, which should at least see us through the May Balls.’

  ‘Any word on Professor Dill, Scobie?’

  ‘The doctor called on him this morning, but he didn’t say anything. Oh, and sir, you might be interested to know that a coroner’s inquest is to be opened this morning on Dr Birbach.’