Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘When and where, Scobie?’

  ‘Eleven. Town hall. Open to the public.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wilde carried on through the gateway into the New Court. On another day, he might have ambled slowly across the lawn and basked in its summer brilliance, but today he was in a hurry. Almost immediately, Scobie called him back.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I nearly forgot. There was a call for you twenty minutes since. A Mr Philip Eaton. Wondered if you would oblige him by calling him back at your leisure. And he left a message – said Miss Morris was out of Germany and would be back in Cambridge as soon as possible. He said you’d know what he was talking about.’

  ‘Thank you, Scobie. Thank you.’ The day wasn’t hot, but he was. His head was down as he hastened across the New Court into the Old Court, his black gown catching the breeze. Lydia’s face came to mind, her tangled hair and bohemian clothes – an old darned shirt of her late father’s perhaps or a painter’s smock she had found in a shop in Cornwall last year. Her face. The face and mind he loved, the face of a poet and a lover, the very antithesis of glamour. And then the image vanished like smoke before his eyes and Clarissa appeared, beckoning.

  When he reached his stairs, he noticed that the door to Birbach’s room was wide open. Inside, Bobby was directing a couple of cleaning women who were wielding mops and brooms . . .

  ‘This is a sad sight, Bobby.’

  ‘The world moves on, Professor Wilde. These rooms have been used by many generations of great men and I am sure they will be used by many more.’

  ‘Very philosophical.’

  ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee, Professor? If you don’t mind my saying so, you look in need of a pick-me-up.’

  ‘Yes, coffee would be fine. And look, I’m being taken to Newmarket races this afternoon. I’ve never been before. Anything I should know?’

  ‘Keep your wallet well concealed about your person, Professor. Keep your eyes peeled for pickpockets and don’t play Find The Lady, sometimes known as the three-card trick. It’s a fix – you can’t win.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. And what about a bet on the horses? I think you owe me a winner, Bobby.’

  The gyp grinned, revealing his remaining front tooth. ‘Well, Professor, if you’re inclined to place a wager, I’d suggest Divine Tragedy in the three o’clock. Lightly raced two-year-old by Hyperion. If you can get a hundred to thirty, you’ll be doing well.’

  *

  Torsten Hellquist wasn’t at the inquest. Perhaps fear had, indeed, made him leave town. Nor was Fanny Winch there. Wilde surmised that she didn’t want to have anything to do with the police, and who could blame her given the prostitution laws?

  Birbach had no relatives in the country. His only acquaintances were from college or the Cavendish Laboratory and none of them except Wilde had turned up. The only other people there were the police surgeon, Rupert Weir, a reporter from the Cambridge Daily News and two police officers, one uniformed and one plain-clothes.

  At the last moment, Geoff Lancing arrived and took a seat next to Wilde in the public gallery.

  The coroner introduced the inquest by saying this was merely a preliminary hearing and that a full inquest would be held at a later date. He then called on the police to give a brief report on the discovery of the body and what was known. The plain-clothes officer gave his name as Detective Inspector John Tomlinson and described the position of the corpse in the river, and the condition in which it was found.

  He said that it was immediately treated as a death in suspicious circumstances and the police surgeon, Dr Rupert Weir, had been called on to examine the body and, if necessary, to perform an autopsy. The result of that, as the coroner would hear, was that foul play was suspected and that it seemed likely that Dr Birbach had suffered poisoning by military-grade vesicant gas, though that was not the cause of death.

  Police inquiries were proceeding. Friends and colleagues of the dead man were being questioned. The War Office in London, and Special Branch at Scotland Yard, had been contacted to discover the most likely source of the gas and to make their own inquiries. As yet there were few leads, but a Special Branch officer was expected in Cambridge imminently.

  According to Dr Weir, who was called next, the gas used was almost certainly sulfur mustard, commonly known as mustard gas, for the blistering effect was typical. It was highly unlikely, though not impossible, that it had been self-administered or ingested accidentally, so it was right that the case be treated as murder.

  Dr Weir said the victim had not ingested a large quantity of poison gas into the lungs. If it was forced on him, he would have resisted inhaling for as long as he could, perhaps a minute and a half. But then he had suffered massive heart failure – caused by shock and an existing heart condition – and death would have been sudden.

  Tissue samples were being sent to the police laboratories at Scotland Yard for further investigation. The coroner listened carefully while taking notes, then adjourned the inquest sine die.

  On the way out, Wilde and Lancing cornered the police inspector.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ Wilde said. ‘If we might trouble you for a minute? Dr Lancing here worked closely with Dr Birbach at the Cavendish Laboratory. I knew Birbach from college, where our rooms were on the same staircase. We would both very much like to talk with you.’

  John Tomlinson was a stiff, bespectacled officer. He shook hands with the two academics. ‘It is a most unfortunate occurrence, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As I said to the coroner, we are desperately short of clues, not to mention manpower. It has been suggested that Dr Birbach’s dreadful death was in some way connected to the work he was doing at the laboratory, but as yet that has been of no help to me. If either of you have any leads, I would very much like to hear them.’

  ‘Who have you talked to?’

  ‘The college master, and I have spoken on the phone to Professor Bragg.’

  ‘Have you worked on Dr Birbach’s last hours?’ asked Wilde. ‘You know, I suppose, that he attended a party at Hawksmere Old Hall just south-west of Cambridge, not far from Boldbourne? It is owned by an American couple, the Hardimans.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do know that. I’m sure the Special Branch officer will want to talk to Mr and Mrs Hardiman.’

  ‘He attended the party with a woman named Fanny Winch. You will find her at No. 16 Swaffham Lane. Have you spoken with her?’

  ‘All in good time, Professor Wilde. All in good time. Step by step.’

  ‘I have spoken to her. She says that after he dropped her off he was picked up in a car by two men.’

  ‘Then I will most certainly be asking my officers to interview the young lady.’

  Wilde exchanged glances with Geoff Lancing. ‘I suspect if you find that car and those men, you will have found the killers.’

  ‘I’m not inclined to jump to conclusions, Professor Wilde. However, your point is taken.’ The officer took out his notebook and scribbled the name and address of Mrs Winch. He also asked Wilde and Lancing for their own contact details, then thanked them again for their help.

  Wilde watched him with despair. ‘Far be it from me to tell you your job, Inspector Tomlinson, but has it occurred to you the political and security implications of this murder, given the work Dr Birbach was doing and the fact that the country is on a war footing?’

  Tomlinson spoke as though addressing a slow child. ‘Indeed, sir, which is why Special Branch and the War Office have been made aware of the death and its circumstances. In the meantime, I also have other important matters to attend to. Cambridge has suffered an IRA attack, one of many around the country. I should emphasise, perhaps, that we are all working under extreme pressure. Special Branch and the intelligence services lack resources, and so we must do what we can with the men available. I can promise you, however, that the killer or killers of Dr Birbach will be brought to court and will suffer the full and dread consequences of their abhorrent act. Good day to you both . . .’

  They watched h
im turn and go. ‘He’s utterly lost, Geoff,’ said Wilde as they, too, walked out. ‘Doesn’t know where to start. I rather suspect Inspector Tomlinson has never investigated a murder before. Paul Birbach was tortured and died – yet no one in authority seems to be asking the obvious questions.’

  ‘It’s a filthy can of worms, isn’t it? Hopefully the Special Branch man will inspire more confidence.’

  ‘If he ever arrives. God, though, I’d like to talk to Torsten Hellquist. He’s the one who first suspected murder.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get worried about him. He could at least have left a note to say he was going away, or made a phone call.’

  Wilde grunted. He was becoming worried, too.

  ‘Anyway, Tom, I’ve got to get back to the lab. I’m taking Eva – Frau Dr Haas – into the working areas. She wanted to see the high-tension laboratory.’

  ‘Is that acceptable? I mean without clearance.’

  ‘Why on earth not? I took you around, Tom.’

  ‘Not quite the same thing, is it? Pretty clear I was in no position to glean secrets. What about Lindberg – are you taking him too?’

  Lancing laughed. ‘Oh, he’s happy enough in the library. Trying to catch up with his reading after three years out of things. I’m afraid it’s not going to happen. Whatever they did to him in that place, it’s blunted his intellect. Dr Lindberg’s days of cutting-edge physics are over.’

  ‘Geoff—’ Wilde paused. This was awkward. ‘Why did you take Eva to Old Hall? Wasn’t it obvious that Hardiman would be vile to her?’

  Lancing looked puzzled. ‘I took her because Clarissa asked me to bring her.’

  A boy of twelve or thirteen approached them. He was in his Scouts uniform with a gas mask fixed to his face, giving him the look of an undersea creature. From behind his back he produced two cap guns. He pointed them at Wilde and Lancing and pulled the triggers. There was a crack and the whiff of sulphur. His laugh was distorted by the mask. Then he pulled it up from his face and ran away whooping.

  Wilde had to laugh, too. But he couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before the boy was required to tote real pistols. Nor could he help wondering about Eva Haas and her visit to Old Hall. There was something he didn’t quite understand. It was almost as if Milt Hardiman already knew Frau Haas. But that, surely, was impossible.

  CHAPTER 27

  Everyone who was anyone was at the races. The women wore light summer frocks and sunhats. The men wore boaters and blazers, panamas and linen suits. They carried wallets bulging with cash and wore binoculars around their necks: no gas masks here. In the Members’ Enclosure, they drank Champagne and fine Cognac and argued endlessly about the prospects of their horses.

  It was a day for spotting the great and the good. Was that the Aga Khan cheering on his horse? Good Lord, isn’t that Clarissa Lancing stepping from a powder-blue car and waving to the crowds? And who’s the lucky man at her side?

  At Newmarket races, a mere dozen miles east of Cambridge, men and women of noble birth mixed with brash new money and the lowest in the land – the tricksters, the unemployed, the drunks and the ex-cons. The only people missing were those who sniffed at the races and at gambling: the prim, disapproving middle classes.

  Wilde immediately felt at home. He, Clarissa and the Hardimans (along with Theo, who smirked knowingly at Wilde) had enjoyed a fine lunch of lobster thermidor with a couple of bottles of vintage Krug in the members’ dining room. Every so often a trainer or owner or course steward turned up to pay their respects. Milt Hardiman was well known in this fraternity. Was it the man they admired or his money?

  The crowd was in high spirits, for this was quality racing, perhaps some of the last of its kind for years to come. Wagers were large and optimistic: eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we go to war. This might not have been Tom Wilde’s usual habitat, but the spectacle of the shiny horses and the mad hubbub of the racegoers caught his imagination.

  After lunch, they stayed at their table, sipping coffee and brandy and smoking Havana cigars. Hardiman and Clarissa were arguing. ‘Goddamn it, Clary, it’s always want, want, want with you. You want the whole world! Well, I’ve got news for you, sister, I’ve already given you the whole damn world.’

  ‘Well, up yours, too, Milt.’

  Peggy was studiously ignoring them. Wilde had no idea what they were talking about, but he suspected it was something to do with a movie deal. For a moment, he thought Hardiman might raise his hand to strike her. What was Clarissa to him? His pet movie star. Not just an investment, surely. Were they lovers, present or past? Whatever it was, Peggy Hardiman seemed entirely indifferent.

  Wilde was sitting with Peggy to his right and Clarissa on the left. Peggy, tall and thin, leant over in his direction like some kind of languid stick insect. ‘Aren’t you going to have a wager, Professor Wilde?’

  He responded to her silent plea for a change of subject. ‘There’s a horse in the next race I might go for.’

  Clarissa turned her head sharply away from Hardiman and glared at Wilde. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said I might have a bet in this race.’

  Wilde had merely watched the first two races, but then he looked at the card for the third and spotted the horse Bobby had mentioned, Divine Tragedy. He placed his finger on the page.

  ‘That’s the one,’ he said.

  ‘Not a chance, darling,’ Clarissa said. ‘The favourite’s odds-on and everyone says it’s a cert. Anyway, you’ve gone for a Hyperion colt, so it will want further.’ She turned to Hardiman. ‘Isn’t that so, Milt?’

  Hardiman was only half-listening. He had turned away and was looking out the window, gazing deep into the crowd. ‘What’s that, Clarissa?’

  ‘I said Divine Tragedy will want further than six furlongs.’

  ‘You’d think so. But a Hyperion colt won the Gimcrack over six.’

  Peggy patted his hand. ‘Don’t listen to these two know-it-alls, Professor Wilde. You put your money down on whichever horse you fancy.’

  Clarissa nuzzled closer to Wilde. ‘I still say you’ll lose, Tom. Let’s have a little side bet on it. Your horse wins, I do anything you want. Anything.’ She lowered her voice. ‘All the things you wouldn’t let me do last night . . . The favourite wins and you’re my slave for the day – and then you’ll find out what I want.’ Her hand was on his thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth, stroking. He needed to move away. He couldn’t help his arousal; that was beyond his control. And yet her scent no longer intoxicated him. Instead, it unnerved him. Every caress reminded him that Lydia was due home.

  ‘And what would that entail, being your slave?’

  ‘Do you really want me to spell it out?’

  Wilde disengaged her hand from his thigh. ‘My gyp says Divine Tragedy’s the one, and I trust him.’ He rose from the table. ‘I’m going to put a fiver on the animal.’

  ‘Go ahead and waste your money.’ She drew on a black Sobranie in a long white holder, then blew a thin trail of smoke towards his eyes. ‘What about our bet – is it on?’

  She was angry, but he wasn’t sure why. Was it something Hardiman had said?

  He shrugged. ‘How can I refuse?’ he said, and immediately regretted it.

  *

  As he wandered down to the rails bookmakers Wilde wondered why in God’s name he had agreed to be here with these people, with this woman. Jim Vanderberg had a lot to answer for. More bewildering was why these people wanted him along. He could not quite believe that he had the presence or charisma to entice a woman like Clarissa Lancing, a film star who had Hollywood at her feet, a woman who had been linked with Gary Cooper and Clark Gable, among others. Was she just playing games with the little people – or was there something going on?

  The bookies were offering three-to-one against Divine Tragedy, so he took the odds, then watched the horses parading. Never having been to the races before, he was beguiled by the brilliance of the jockeys’ silks, the glistening majesty of the thoroug
hbreds and the strange magic of the bookies’ men with their secret tic-tac language of hand signals. A man could easily get drawn into this, he thought.

  The race was a straight dash to the winning line. Wilde tried to listen to the tannoy, but the race commentary was as incomprehensible as a railway-station speaker, and he had no idea what was happening until they came into the last hundred yards and flashed past the winning post. Divine Tragedy, yellow silks shimmering in the sun, was well ahead of the rest. He had won.

  Wilde laughed out loud. He wandered back to the bookie, who counted out four white five-pound notes. ‘There you are, sir, five pounds at carpet, threes, plus your stake. My nippers won’t eat tonight.’

  Wilde very much doubted the children would starve. The bookie was puffing on a fat cigar, his enormous stomach protruding behind a loud scarlet waistcoat with a gold fob chain hanging between pockets. Wilde grinned, thanked the man, then strode off to the winner’s enclosure to watch the hero of the hour being paraded. A stable handler who looked no bigger than a ten-year-old but had the wrinkles of a fifty-year-old was throwing buckets of water over the horse’s steaming flanks as it performed a victory turn around the ring.

  As Wilde lingered, pleased to be away from the tense atmosphere around the Hardimans’ table, he was surprised to spot Henty O’Gara, standing on the far side of the winners’ enclosure.

  But of course he’d be there. Henty had said he had horses. That was why he was over from Ireland. He had said, too, that he would be staying in Newmarket. Wilde took a step round the picket fence and was just about to hail his cousin, when he stopped, and dropped his hand.

  O’Gara wasn’t alone now. He had approached Milt Hardiman and they were talking.

  Wilde slid back and away, out of their line of sight. He shrank back into the shadow of the doorway to the jockeys’ weighing room. He stood, unseen he hoped, and watched.

  What on earth was the connection between Hardiman and O’Gara? But then, he told himself, the racing world was small, like a village. Everyone would know each other. Hardiman was a keen racegoer, had horses of his own in training, though none here today. But even though Wilde could see this was logical, it didn’t seem quite enough.