‘Come on,’ Wilde said. ‘Let’s hope Geoff’s in. I think you’ll be safe here.’
‘What about the papers?’ Eva said.
‘Should we just burn them?’
‘No, they are of great value. The result of many hours’ work by Dr Birbach and Dr Hellquist. These papers are their legacy to the world.’
‘I have an idea. Tell me which are the most important and I’ll look after them.’ He unhooked the saddle bags and slung them over his shoulder.
*
If Geoff Lancing was surprised by the arrival of Eva and Albert, he recovered well. He shook the boy’s hand and introduced himself in imperfect German. Albert clung to his mother’s skirt as though he would never let her go.
‘I think we should leave them together for a few minutes, don’t you, Geoff?’ suggested Wilde.
Outside, Wilde and Lancing paced round the ancient court, while Wilde brought his friend up to date, the full story of Colonel Flood and events at Boldbourne airfield. Geoff Lancing listened with growing horror as Wilde told him about the terrible death of Torsten Hellquist.
‘God, Tom, this is simply awful! Have you told the police?’
‘I’ll call them as soon as we’ve finished here. In the meantime, I don’t want anyone to know where Eva and Albert are. Not even the police. We have two overriding concerns, Geoff: to protect the Cavendish and to protect Eva and Albert. It’s vital you keep them here until you hear from me, personally, that the danger has passed. Have a word with your porters – they mustn’t tell a soul, nor admit anyone they don’t know. I don’t even want the police to know that Frau Haas is here. Got that?’
They returned to his rooms to find Eva and the boy curled up together on Lancing’s bed. Wilde called the police from the sitting room and told them to contact Detective Chief Inspector Northgate. He should go to Boldbourne airfield with an armed patrol. There had been a murder and the killers might still be there. He told them, too, to go to Number 16, Swaffham Lane and arrest Fanny Winch on suspicion of child abduction.
Wilde shoved his hand in his pocket and removed the gun – a Luger – he had taken from the guard in the hangar. ‘Do you know how to use this, Geoff?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then take it. Just in case. I’ve got another one.’
‘There’s one person you haven’t talked about, Tom. My sister – what part does she play in all this? She’s part of Hardiman’s set . . .’
Wilde grimaced. He had hoped to avoid the subject. ‘I’m afraid I fear the worst, Geoff. To tell the truth, I don’t even know where she is right now.’
Lancing looked through the open door to the mother and son wrapped in each other’s arms. ‘The thing is, Tom, I know her better than anyone in the world. I knew her when she was a child. And I have no doubts about her. No doubts whatsoever.’
CHAPTER 38
As Wilde rode south, the town was quiet, the revellers dispersed. A half-moon cast silver light into dark corners. His mind was swirling with the story Geoff Lancing had just told him, a version of the account Clarissa had given as they flew over St Margaret’s Bay and out across the Channel towards Paris. A very different version . . .
‘We had a nanny,’ Lancing began.
‘Nanny Tobin,’ Wilde said. ‘Clarissa told me. A tragic tale.’
Lancing raised an eyebrow, and continued.
‘Her husband had been an officer, but she was left destitute after he was killed in the War. What could she do? There were few men left to marry a well-bred widow in her thirties. So she had to become a governess or a nanny – a not uncommon tale. By the time of the events I’m describing, Clarissa and I were off at our respective prep schools, but my father kept Tobin on because she had become part of the family and, well, he was a widower. It never occurred to me at the time that there could be anything between them, but looking back I can’t help wondering whether they didn’t bring each other some comfort. I hope so.’
Wilde looked at his watch. ‘Carry on, Geoff – St Margaret’s Bay.’
‘Before the war, most of our summer holidays were spent there, but it was shut up for the duration. By late August 1918 the war was moving eastwards and so it opened up again and we were brought down by Tobin to spend the last couple of weeks of the summer holidays there. Father had a few days leave and hopped over from France and, with the benefit of hindsight, I’d say he probably hopped straight into bed with Tobin. I suspect Clarissa rumbled them somehow – whether she actually caught them in bed I have no idea – but it makes sense . . .
‘One morning, Clarissa said she wanted to walk along the cliffs to Dover and then play some tennis. Daddy could send a car over with our rackets and the driver would wait around to take us home later. Of course, he never refused her anything and it sounded a pretty jolly idea.’
‘What happened?’
‘Clarissa insisted that Tobin came with us – and Daddy agreed. So she made a picnic and we set off. Some way along the cliff path we stopped to have a slice of pork pie and look out to sea. It was a glorious day, but Clarissa was playing up, asking Tobin about her dead husband and when she was going to find another. Even at nine, I could tell she was out of order. When Tobin said she didn’t want to talk about it, Clarissa began to sulk and wandered over to the cliff edge. Tobin became very agitated, told her to come back, that the cliff could crumble beneath her. Clarissa sat down with her legs dangling over the edge. The cliffs are high and sheer there. It was very, very scary to watch.
‘Tobin begged her to come back; Clarissa studiously ignored her and just carried on swinging her legs in space. Tobin moved nearer and – it’s a bit of a blur – the next moment she was no longer there. I’m not sure whether I saw murder committed or not. Have I blanked it out? Clarissa stood up, looked down to the bottom of the cliff, then turned, smiled at me and put a finger to her lips. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I think Tobin’s killed herself.” ’
Wilde gasped. ‘Good God!’
‘We ran home. Clarissa was in tears, collapsed at daddy’s feet, told him Tobin was dead. “She said she couldn’t take any more and just leapt. Geoffrey saw it, didn’t you, Geoffrey?” I said I hadn’t seen or heard anything. One moment Tobin was there, the next she wasn’t, that’s all I could say.’
‘There must have been an inquest and a police investigation.’
‘Of course. But without a suicide note, the verdict was open. I have had twenty-one years to think about it, however, and now I’m sure that Clarissa killed Tobin because she was jealous of my father’s affection for her.’
‘Do you think he suspected her?’
‘Lord no, he’s always worshipped the ground my sister walked on . . . as did I, Tom. She was perfect in my father’s eyes. He began to give her flying lessons when she was fourteen and she was a natural. Bloody fine aviatrix from the word go. Superb navigational skills too. The other thing she’s good at, of course, is acting. Wonderful actress, Clarissa, and not just on stage and screen.’
‘You’ve no proof of any of this nanny stuff, of course. No evidence, nothing.’
Lancing gave a resigned smile. ‘You’re right, of course, Tom. But I know it’s true. She came to me one night, a few years later, and said, “She thought she could fly, little brother. But we’re the only ones who can fly.” Just that.’ He took Wilde’s hand and held it between both his. ‘I feel enormous guilt, Tom. Guilt for poor Tobin – and guilt for dragging you into this ghastly world. I’m sorry I ever got you involved with her and the Hardimans. She wanted you to come to Old Hall and, well, I’m so used to doing her bidding, I didn’t really give it a second thought. It never occurred to me, of course, that she would set her sights on a grumpy, motorbike-riding, oddball history professor. You’re not her usual type.’
‘Thanks for the flattering vote of confidence, Geoff.’
The story was still there, stuck like a record in his head, as he arrived at the college. He spotted a car parked on the other side of the road, not
more than thirty yards away. Two men sat, statue-like, in the front seats. It was Hardiman’s Lagonda and Wilde recognised the two men from Old Hall. He smiled grimly: the guard at the airfield wouldn’t be out and about for a while. Not after the hammering Wilde had meted out.
There was no way of avoiding being spotted, so Wilde didn’t try. He parked the motorbike at the main gate, tucked the saddlebag under his arm, exchanged pleasantries with the night porter, and walked across the New Court through into the smaller Old Court. The college was deathly silent, the wisteria heavy with scent, the dark sooty walls silhouetted in the moonlight. On the west side of the Old Court, he climbed the smoke-stained staircase to Horace Dill’s rooms. The door was open and a light was on, so he knocked and then walked in.
Dill was awake, propped up in bed with a book in one hand and a dead cigar in the other. His eyes met Wilde’s and he smiled.
‘Come to watch me die, Wilde?’
‘What are you reading, Horace – Marx?’
‘Too late for that. At this stage, it has to be Shelley. My life began with him, and so must it end.’
‘What specifically?’
‘You’ll laugh . . . “The Triumph Of Life”.’
Wilde raised an eyebrow. It was obvious that death was close to winning the battle in Horace’s case. ‘I’m sorry to call on you so late,’ he said.
‘Time’s lost its meaning, Wilde. Anyway, I fear to sleep in the night.’ He was about to descend into a coughing fit, but he put down the book and held his hand to his chest, took a few short, rasping breaths and managed to calm the storm.
Wilde held up the saddlebag. ‘There are papers in here, Horace. Important papers. Can I hide them here? Some of them at least. I doubt anyone would think to look in your rooms.’
‘What papers?’
‘The work Hellquist and Birbach were doing at the Cavendish. Don’t ask me to explain it, but both men are now dead because of this work. The Nazis did for them, Horace, and they would kill again to get their hands on these papers.’
Dill’s rasping laugh descended into yet another fit of coughs. ‘They’re more than welcome to kill me,’ he said when he could speak again. He eyed the room. It was as shabby and cluttered as it had always been. Books and papers everywhere, piled high, spilling from shelves, filling the space beneath his brass bed and beneath his table. Barely a spare space for a man to tread. ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Among my manuscripts.’
Wilde removed half the papers from the saddlebag, and crossed the room, sliding them in among other papers in a three-feet high pile. It would take a long time to find these.
‘Thank you, Horace.’
‘Well, with any luck, your Nazis will come and put me out of my misery with a bullet to the head. You know, Wilde, you do seem to attract trouble.’
‘And you don’t, of course, Horace.’
The older man grinned wolfishly, then grew more serious. ‘Can you spend a little time with me?’
Wilde removed a pile of books from Dill’s desk chair, moved it across to his bedside and sat down. ‘Perhaps you’ll beat it, Horace. Your cough doesn’t sound as bad as it did.’
Dill ignored the bromide; he knew the truth. ‘Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Not really.’ Wilde was thinking of Philip Eaton. Dill had been his mentor. Would the dying history professor wish to know what had happened to his favourite pupil? It seemed kinder not to mention it, and yet he found himself saying: ‘Eaton was run down a few hours ago.’
‘No, surely not?’
‘He’s alive, but he’s lost an arm. It was the same people who want those papers. It was made to look like a road accident, but it was attempted murder.’
‘Philip . . .’ Dill was shaking his head, drifting into a reverie of many years ago.
‘Do you want me to light your cigar, Horace?’
‘No. It’ll ravage my throat and stop me talking to you. Ah, Philip, Philip . . . he was the best of my undergraduates, you know. He’s always been one of us – a great believer in social justice and a better world. He can do great things for this country.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be sad to leave this fucking life, Tom. So much unmitigated misery.’
Wilde took hold of Dill’s thin hand, all skin, bone and sinew. He had always suspected, of course, that Eaton was a crypto-communist, recruited to the cause by Dill. That didn’t mean, however, that Eaton didn’t also have his own country’s interests at heart.
They talked for an hour until the light in Dill’s watery eyes began to fade. His breathing was slow, each breath more shallow than the last, rattling in his throat. When his eyes finally closed, Wilde stood up, put the book of Shelley verses on the bedside table, but left the dead cigar in his hand.
*
Before leaving the college, he visited his own rooms. On the table was a piece of paper, folded in half. He opened it: Lydia’s handwriting. ‘I was here,’ it said. ‘Your tart turned up in a bit of a state and I looked after her. She is very worried – seems you are her only hope. I have no idea where you are and we’ve given up waiting for you and gone home. At least I know you’re not with her! Kiss kiss.’
When he left the college, the car was still there. Unhurriedly, he replaced the saddlebag on the bike, climbed aboard and set off southwards, keeping to thirty miles per hour, aware that the car was on his tail. Once outside town, he turned the throttle and accelerated. The road ahead was empty and soon it was empty behind him, too.
He looped eastwards and northwards and came back into Cambridge by way of the Ely road. His first stop was the Cavendish. Had the cleaning woman Fanny Winch been in? Indeed she had, the night porter said, but she had now gone home. Why, was there was a problem?
Wilde wasn’t sure. ‘Just take a look around, would you?’
‘What am I looking for, sir?’
‘I wish I knew. But if anything seems out of place, call me – or the police. Yes?’
‘Very well, sir.’ The night porter seemed less than impressed.
Arriving home, he half-expected to see the Lagonda outside his house. But there was no sign of it. He had to see Lydia, to talk with her, but first he parked the Rudge and went to his own front door, turning the key quietly.
Upstairs the quiet was broken by the soft murmur of Arnold Lindberg’s snoring; at least he was safe and well. But none of this had ever been about him. His supposed escape from Dachau had just been a ruse by the Germans to get Eva Haas to England and inside the Cavendish Laboratory.
Wilde deposited the saddlebag with the remainder of the papers, carefully selected by Frau Haas, left his jacket and pistol on the bed and went to the bathroom. He washed his face in cold water and soap. His chin was rough and he considered shaving to keep himself awake, but the phone was ringing. He hurried downstairs.
‘Professor Wilde?’ A man’s voice.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘Guy Rowlands. I’m an associate of Mr Eaton. I’ve been trying to contact you for several hours now. Apparently you called Mr Carstairs and it sounded pretty urgent.’
‘You know Eaton’s been injured? Lost an arm.’
‘So I understand. Shocking news. I’m on my way up to Cambridge to look into it. I’ll be with you nine-ish. Will you be at home or college?’
‘If I’m not at one, I’ll be at the other. Northgate from Special Branch is up here, too.’
‘I know.’
Wilde put the phone down. Time to go next door.
*
It was Clarissa Lancing who opened the door to his knock, her damp, beautiful eyes peering around the painted edge.
‘Professor Wilde – thank God you’re here. Come in quickly, come in.’
He hesitated and then stepped forward through the narrow gap, into the hallway. Did she know about the letter Lydia had left for him? Lydia certainly wouldn’t have allowed her to read it, couched in those terms. He feigned surprise at her presence here.
Clar
issa closed the front door. ‘Through there,’ she said, nodding towards the sitting room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Something awful’s happened, Wilde. I’m terrified. Lydia’s been such a chum, but it’s you I need. You’re the only one who can help.’
Wilde shrugged and led the way into the sitting room. Lydia was on the sofa. Dexter Flood was by her side, pointing a pistol at her temple.
CHAPTER 39
‘Hand out of your pocket, Wilde. Slow and easy. Clarissa – frisk him.’
‘My pleasure.’ Smiling now as though she had just won a sweepstake, she patted him down for weapons. ‘He’s clean.’
‘OK,’ Flood said. ‘Now, Wilde, nothing bad need happen. You and Miss Morris here can both get out of this alive. We ask only one thing. We want those goddamn papers you took from the hangar.’
His voice was even, but determined. Wilde had already seen what he and his confederates could do to a man’s body; he had no doubt that he would torture and kill him or Lydia or both of them to achieve his ends.
‘You look as if you need a drink, Tom,’ said Clarissa. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
Wilde kept his gaze fixed on the pistol and Lydia’s face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Flood, but I suggest you put that gun down right away.’
Lydia had her hands in her lap. Her face was drawn, but she wasn’t shaking, she wasn’t pleading or weeping. Seeing her like that, unafraid, defiant, Wilde knew with utter certainty that he loved her.
‘You’re not listening, Wilde. Goddamn it, we haven’t got all day to deal with this! We know you have those papers. Where are they?’
‘Why should I tell you anything? You’ll kill us anyway.’
Dexter Flood grabbed hold of Lydia’s hair, wrenched her head downwards and pushed the muzzle of the pistol hard into her head. She didn’t cry out.
‘OK, OK,’ Wilde said. ‘OK, I took the papers, but they meant nothing to me – I tossed them in a bin in the middle of town. I can take you there if you want.’
‘Bullshit. They’re at your college.’
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