Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Clarissa’s hand beneath the table was at his trouser fly. Wilde put his hand over hers to stop it.

  She feigned hurt. ‘They’re only buttons, Mr Wilde. It’s what slave girls do for their masters.’

  ‘And this is a very public place, Miss Lancing.’

  Hardiman wasn’t watching, nor was his wife. But their son Theo was.

  CHAPTER 29

  When Wilde arrived home, he called Philip Eaton’s London number and left a message with his man Terence Carstairs. ‘Tell him I need to speak to him soonest, if you would, Carstairs.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Do you know if Miss Lydia Morris has arrived?’

  ‘All is as you might expect.’

  Wilde took the reply as a Yes. He badly wanted to see Lydia, but he was also riddled with guilt. The fact that nothing untoward had happened in Clarissa’s bedroom did not do much to lessen his sense of shame. The woman had been naked and he had been in her room. It was his bloody fault for allowing himself to be compromised.

  Seconds after Wilde put the phone down, it rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Professor Wilde?’ Not Eaton, but a growling voice of indeterminate provenance.

  ‘Yes, who’s that?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Northgate, Special Branch. I’ve been trying to contact you for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Ah, I take it you’ve arrived to investigate the murder of Dr Birbach.’ You could have been here a great deal earlier, Wilde thought.

  ‘Indeed, sir. And I would very much like to talk with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Could we agree to meet in the morning, perhaps? Say nine o’clock?’

  ‘We could talk now if you want. Are you at St Andrew’s Street? I could ride over. Or come here if you like.’

  ‘Tomorrow at the station would be more convenient. I have several people to talk to this evening.’

  ‘Well, I’m here if you change your mind. And make sure you interview Mrs Winch. She’s among the last people to see Dr Birbach alive. She told me she saw him getting into a black car with two men.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve already interviewed her – and that’s exactly what she told me. I now have descriptions of the men and our constables have been furnished with the details. We will find the car.’

  At last something was happening. ‘Nine it is then.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  *

  Dr Lindberg was sitting alone in the sitting room, listening to the wireless. He rose from his armchair and bowed formally. Wilde urged him to sit back down.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed, thank you. But your phone has been ringing. I did not wish to answer it, so I let it ring.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, as to the Cavendish, I have done much reading in the laboratory library. So many papers, in both German and English! It is not easy to catch up.’

  ‘Is Frau Dr Haas not here?’

  ‘She remained with Dr Lancing.’ Lindberg smiled uncertainly. ‘I think perhaps I am a little envious of her. He trusts her more than me, I think.’

  Wilde nodded and excused himself. In the kitchen, he discovered that Doris had left a casserole dish with instructions in capital letters on how to heat it up: Lancashire Hotpot – mutton and potatoes. He lifted the lid. It looked and smelt good and reminded him of school lunches. Better than lobster bloody thermidor any day.

  He thought back to the drive home from Newmarket with Clarissa. It had not been easy. She hunched away from him, deep into the corner of her seat, her gaze fixed firmly out of the window. In a child, he would have called it a sulk; in a movie actress, he supposed it was par for the course.

  ‘What were you and Milt fighting about?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh that. It was nothing.’

  ‘To an outsider, you don’t seem to have much in common with the Hardimans,’ he ventured.

  ‘And what do you know about it, Professor Wilde?’

  ‘Just what my eyes tell me.’

  ‘Perhaps you need a pair of spectacles.’

  And that had been the sum of their conversation until they reached the eastern outskirts of Cambridge. Then, ‘What do you think of me, Wilde?’ she had asked quietly, her face still fixed on the window and the landscape outside.

  At first he thought he had misheard. ‘What do I think of you?’

  ‘Do you like me?’

  A hard question. ‘I think you are very demanding.’

  ‘And do you think I’ve slept with every director in Hollywood?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but we’ve all heard of the casting couch, I suppose.’

  ‘You mean where young women offer their bodies to men in exchange for roles in movies.’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  Her head and shoulders shook. For a moment he thought she was crying. But surely Clarissa Lancing didn’t weep unless the script called for it. He put out a hand to her and then pulled it back.

  ‘That’s not the way it is. They rape you, Mr Wilde. And then they pass you on. That’s the way it is.’ Her voice was deep and bitter.

  She had said no more, not even responding to his ‘Thanks for the outing – hope you have a good evening’ as he climbed from the car.

  Now he looked at his watch. It was seven thirty. He guessed Lindberg must be hungry. If Eva Haas arrived in time to eat, all well and good. If not, there would be leftovers. He still had no idea when Lydia would arrive.

  Lindberg was amenable to the idea. ‘You know, Professor Wilde, I do indeed have an appetite. In the KZ it was merely hunger. A constant gnawing at the stomach. But now, at last, I am regaining my healthy appetite. English food is not so bad.’

  Twenty minutes later, they sat down together at the kitchen table. The food was good and Wilde opened a couple of bottles of beer, which also pleased Lindberg. They clinked glasses.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it, Herr Dr Lindberg, your time in the KZ?’

  ‘No, sir, I want to forget about it. But it is very hard, especially at night when I lie in a comfortable bed. In the Dachau camp, I fell instantly asleep through physical exhaustion, even though the beds were nothing but a thin horsehair mattress on hard planks of wood. Since I have been in England, I have lain awake every night on soft feather mattresses, thinking. Thinking too much about the futility of life and the dark heart of humanity. Last night I was still awake when the sun rose and the birdsong began outside my window.’

  ‘I am still puzzled as to how you escaped Dachau.’

  Lindberg shook his head. ‘I feel the same, Professor. I never expected to get out of that place.’

  ‘But how did they manage it? I have heard of men being freed when they secure a sponsoring country, but in your case I understood they had barred every request for you to leave Germany. Did they have a change of heart?’

  ‘No, I am certain not. Baumgarten told them I was to be taken to another camp nearer Berlin. But it is a mystery to me how the Dachau commandant was so easily deceived.’

  ‘This Baumgarten . . .’

  ‘He pretended to be an SS officer. He also supplied us with false papers and explained in great detail how we were to pose as hikers and find our way through an alpine smugglers’ pass. I must be thankful to him, but I did not trust his motives. That sounds extremely ungrateful of me . . .’ Lindberg trailed off uncertainly.

  ‘But it turned out OK.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. In truth, I do not know what will happen now.’ He had already cleared his plate of every scrap of food. Now he downed the last drop of beer. ‘This is very strange beer. Not like the beers I had when last I was in England.’

  ‘It’s called light ale.’

  ‘Not that I am complaining about the beer, you understand. I don’t want you or the people at the Cavendish to think me ungrateful. You are giving me shelter and Herr Dr Lancing is giving me some space to study. My dearest wish would be
to find some post at the Cavendish. Is that asking too much?’

  It was plain that Lancing hadn’t broken the bad news. ‘You know, Herr Doktor, I fear that’s extremely unlikely. As I understand it, many refugee scientists have inquired after places at the lab, but only a tiny number have been accepted. Mr Eaton would certainly like you to remain in England, but from what Geoff Lancing has told me, you might have more luck at one of the American or French laboratories.’

  ‘Lancing thinks I am not up to it. I see that.’

  ‘I believe it’s a matter of space more than anything.’

  ‘And my war work with gases?’

  Wilde said nothing.

  Lindberg waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Ach, the English used gases, too, and the French. I was in the Imperial German Army when I was deputed to the work. They told us the French were firing gas shells and we had to respond. They told us our work would shorten the war and save many German lives. Of course we knew it was against the Hague Convention, but what were we supposed to do? A man could not disobey orders.’

  Lancing had suggested Lindberg had volunteered for the work, but Wilde did not want to get into an argument. ‘These are not matters for me,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I may not be the man I was, Professor, but I fully understand such things can be held against a man.’ He rose from the table, and gave a brief bow of the head. ‘And now if you will excuse me, I think I will go to bed and read. I am not senile yet.’

  ‘I hope that has not been implied. You are still a young man, Professor. You have plenty of years of important work ahead of you.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind words. But you are wrong. Forty is not young in physics. In history, perhaps, but most physicists are past their prime at my age. Good night, Professor Wilde. I shall see you in the morning.’ He clicked his heels and shuffled away.

  *

  Wilde tried to read, but to no avail. He played some music on the gramophone, quietly, but he wasn’t in the mood. He rolled up his sleeves and removed his tie, then paced the house with a glass of whisky in his hand. The evening was warm and heavy. He looked at the telephone, which remained silent. If Carstairs had got through to Philip Eaton, his message was being ignored.

  What was he supposed to tell O’Gara when he turned up? If he turned up. And where was Eva Haas? He was responsible for her safekeeping here in Cambridge, had promised he would look after her and her uncle. How could he do that when he didn’t know where she was?

  At half eleven, the phone still hadn’t rung and Eva Haas had still not arrived home. Wilde looked at the whisky bottle. It was half empty, but he was stone sober and his mind was racing.

  He stepped out into the back garden and looked up at the sky. It was clear now and the night was starry. He breathed in the scents of flowers from the surrounding gardens: wisteria, fragrant roses, trying to calm himself.

  This was intolerable, this waiting. He gripped his hands into fists and jabbed at the night. Shadow boxing. Passivity wasn’t in his nature: attack, not defence, was his style, and had too often left him open to an uppercut. He knew all too well that the adage about attack being the best form of defence wasn’t always true. But tonight, he needed to do something.

  Back inside, he picked up his keys and walked around to the side where he kept the Rudge. He knew he ought to stay and wait for the phone call, wait for the arrival of Henty O’Gara, wait until Frau Haas arrived home, stay in the house while Lindberg slept. But he was too restless.

  He wheeled the motorbike down the front path on to the road, and fired her up. He was still in his shirt-sleeves, top two buttons undone, no goggles to shield his eyes from the breeze. He eased open the throttle and felt the familiar surge beneath him as he cruised down to the main road, then opened up along Jesus Lane towards town.

  Even at this time of night, Cambridge was alive. This was May Week – the week in June when the colleges staged their famous May Balls. Revellers wound their way around the narrow streets: drunken young men in dinner jackets, bow ties awry and a champagne bottle in their hand; women unsteady on their feet in satin and taffeta and glittering inherited jewellery. Those in their last term sang for joy at the end of the restrictions imposed on them by their colleges, or sang with tears in their eyes at the end of an era and the coming of uncertain adulthood.

  He pulled to a halt outside St John’s. The Great Gate loomed from the darkness of the night. The late porter tipped his hat to him.

  ‘Is Dr Lancing in his rooms, do you know?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I wouldn’t wish to disturb his sleep, but I could look to his window to see if he has a light on.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would. If he’s there and awake, could you say Tom Wilde would like a word?’

  Two minutes later the porter returned. ‘Yes, sir, Dr Lancing is in his rooms and asked if you would care to join him.’

  *

  Geoffrey Lancing was in striped pyjamas, buttoned up to his neck. Wilde was always astonished at how neat and homely he kept his rooms. You would know his passion in an instant, for it was all around you – framed photographs and watercolours of aeroplanes on almost every inch of wall. None of the physicists’ paraphernalia that Birbach had kept in his college rooms.

  ‘You’re out late, Tom. I was just off to bed.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Lancing grimaced. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have slept. I keep thinking about atomic bombs.’

  ‘Will it really happen?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s unthinkable.’

  ‘But possible?’

  ‘Yes, possible. Come here.’ He went to his desk and opened a notebook. He picked up a pencil and drew a circle. ‘That’s Cambridge,’ he said. Then he scratched a skull and cross bones over the whole page. ‘And that’s what just one atomic bomb would do to the town. Most people would be killed outright. The survivors would suffer severe burns. Over half of England would be contaminated by radioactive dust for months to come. All from one bomb.’

  Lancing began stabbing the page with his pencil. Wilde removed it from him. ‘Come on, Geoff.’ He put an arm around his shoulder. ‘You should have gone to Old Hall and got tight.’

  ‘You know, Tom, there are times when I find the company of my sister and the sinister Milton Hardiman a bit on the rich side. I prefer my own nightmares.’

  Wilde smiled. He knew what he meant. After a day at the races with Milt Hardiman and the added complication of Clarissa Lancing’s insistent advances, he had been glad to get away. ‘Geoff, what in God’s name does your sister have in common with Hardiman? How did they ever get together?’

  ‘That’s easy. He’s backed all her movies with millions of dollars. It all began with her first effort, an awful B-movie called The Dark Lady. You won’t have heard of it, because it sunk without trace. But Milt Hardiman kept the faith.’

  ‘Nothing to do with politics?’ Wilde tried to keep his tone light.

  ‘I suppose they do both seem to admire the likes of Benito and Adolf, but I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Clarissa gets her teeth into a cause, shakes it to death, then moves on.’ Lancing threw Wilde a sharp look. ‘And that will include you, I’m afraid. You could fill an ossuary with the skeletons of her cast-off lovers.’

  Wilde shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t put myself in that category,’ he said. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I did come for a reason. Frau Haas hasn’t come home and I don’t know where she is. I’m responsible for her. I thought she might be with you.’

  Lancing looked surprised. ‘Really? How odd. I thought she’d have got home hours ago.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Well, after the Cavendish, we went for a drink at the Eagle at about six, but we weren’t there more than half an hour or so. Hour at the most. She was in rather a bad way actually – frightfully jittery. Didn’t want to socialise with the other chaps, just me. She’s fearfully worried about her boy, you know. One moment she’s been throwing herself into work to dull the
pain, the next she’s in the depths of despair.’

  ‘How did you leave things with her?’

  ‘I offered to take her home, but she said she wanted to be alone and walk a bit. You don’t think she’s . . . you know . . . done something foolish?’

  The thought had crossed Wilde’s mind that she might be suicidal, but he didn’t want to alarm Lancing. ‘No, Geoff, I don’t believe we’ve any worries on that score. I would venture to suggest that she is made of quite stern stuff.’

  ‘Where is she then?’

  ‘Perhaps she went to the synagogue to pray for her boy’s return, or seek comfort from old friends? One of them might have offered her supper.’ Wilde was aware he didn’t sound entirely convincing, but Lancing nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be it.’ He went to one of his carefully organised shelves and pulled out a bottle. ‘I need to get tight. One for you?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Lancing poured himself a large measure, looked at it critically, then topped it up.

  ‘You like the girl, don’t you, Geoff?’

  ‘I suppose it’s pretty obvious.’

  Wilde smiled. ‘I’m pleased for you. But look, are you sure you’re being wise to allow her into your inner sanctum at the Cavendish? How much do we really know about her?’

  If Lancing was affronted, he didn’t show it. ‘Well, I know she’s a refugee from a murderous regime and I know she’s a superb physicist. A genius in the making.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I’m talking about her loyalties.’

  ‘I know you are, Tom. But I trust her.’

  ‘Fair enough. But what of your colleagues? What do they think when they see her working with you? What does Professor Bragg think?’

  ‘I’ve had no complaints to date.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to speak like this, but from what you yourself have told me, the Cavendish has secrets which need to be protected. Paul Birbach has died – probably murdered. Was that for his secrets? And where’s Torsten Hellquist? Why hasn’t he got word through to say he’s safe?’ Wilde stood up.

  ‘You’re right – he should have called. But I think you’re wide of the mark with Dr Haas.’