A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  Wilde climbed into the embassy car. He looked at his hands, wiped them on his jacket. If he were to go to the police now, how would he explain his presence here in Clade? How would he explain his interest in meeting the Reverend Hartwell? How would he explain to the police that he had walked into a stranger’s house uninvited because he had heard a noise?

  And why would they not immediately conclude that he was the murderer?

  The postwoman’s reaction told him everything he needed to know. The local police would have no option; they would have to lock him up as their prime suspect until he could prove otherwise. And how long would that take?

  He switched on the engine, but for a few moments he did not drive, trying to work this through in his mind. There were other things to think of – in particular, the fact that the real murderer was on the loose and almost certainly still in the vicinity. He switched off the engine. At the very least there was time to make a cursory search before the police arrived. He might not be armed, but against a man with a knife, he had to believe his skills in the ring would neutralise the threat.

  Beneath the open window, a path of trodden-down flowers and nettles showed the way the assailant had gone. Wilde followed the trail through the wildflower garden. He came to an apple orchard at the end of the patch. No more than a dozen trees, all heavy with fruit, but behind them there was a low iron gate, which was swinging and creaking in the breeze. Surely, the fugitive must have gone this route?

  On the other side, the land dipped away into a meadow. Twenty or more cows were grazing. At the other side of the pasture, there was a boundary of hornbeam, hawthorn and bramble with an opening that seemed to give on to a track of some sort. Wilde trudged across the field, ignored by the cattle. He was almost at the gap in the hedgerow when he heard the roar of an engine, and then caught a glimpse of a motorbike surging past, billowing smoke from its exhaust.

  It was ridden by a young man, a man he had seen twice before. Mortimer.

  Chapter 14

  Wilde raced back to the car, engaged gear and roared away down the path to the main road. The motorbike had been on a farm track which would have joined the highway from his right. He was certain it would already be some distance away. He guessed it would be heading north and west, in the direction of Cambridge, as that was where he had seen Mortimer before. It was pure surmise, of course, but he had nothing else to go on.

  He floored the accelerator. The car, a six-year-old Jaguar SS 1, had a top speed of about 75 mph, but that was unlikely to be enough against a motorbike at full speed on winding roads, unless the killer stopped or slowed down for any reason. Wilde at least had the element of surprise; the killer knew he had been disturbed in the house, but he didn’t know he had been seen on the road.

  Halfway to Cambridge, Wilde gave up the chase. He had not seen the motorbike and had no idea if he was even on the same road. He had to make some decisions, and he had to make them fast. He couldn’t go to the police in Clade, nor could he be seen in public smeared in blood. On a deserted section of road, he took a track into woodland and stopped close to a stream. Leaving the engine running, he climbed out of the car and immersed himself in the cool, slow-running water. He washed his face and hands thoroughly and did his best to make his clothes appear less alarming by rinsing off what blood he could.

  Forty minutes later, he was pulling up outside the sandbagged police station in St Andrew’s Street, Cambridge. He did not kill the engine, because he was still uncertain about his plan. He had thought that the best move would be to make contact with Sergeant Talbot, for he would recall the confrontation with the stranger on the station concourse and should also be able to give a description. He was more likely to believe Wilde’s story than the police in Suffolk, and that would hopefully go some way to clearing his name.

  The problem was there were still things that couldn’t be said under any circumstances. His movements and inquiries in Scotland, London and Clade – and the reasons behind them – were matters for the OSS and the White House, not for the local constabulary. These matters had to be kept confidential unless he was given high-level clearance to disclose them.

  The engine turned over, rattling the bonnet of the SS 1. His fingers reached for the ignition key to switch it off, but then he thought better of it; this would be a wrong move. He simply could not answer the questions they would be certain to put to him. There had to be a better way to deal with this.

  Instead he drove out to Girton. Rupert Weir was at home finishing his lunch, and immediately invited him in, studiously ignoring his sodden, stained clothes.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the food,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure Edie could rustle something up for you.’

  ‘A cup of tea would go down well.’

  Edie was just poking her head around the door. She smiled in welcome, then blanched at the sight of him. ‘Oh dear, Tom, what have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ll explain all.’

  ‘Never mind. Tell Rupert while I get the tea on.’

  ‘Well,’ Weir said when they were alone together, ‘tell all.’

  ‘I stumbled upon a murder, Rupert. An Athelstan teacher, name of Reverend Hartwell down in Suffolk, just outside Clade.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Poor fellow had had his throat cut. He died in my arms. I’ve already washed myself in a river but, well, as you can see, cleaning my clothes wasn’t so easy.’

  ‘When did this murder happen?’

  ‘Less than two hours ago.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think you have, old man, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

  Wilde emitted a deep sigh. ‘The truth is, I can’t go to the police. I simply can’t. I beg you to trust me, Rupert. There are security issues involved and I won’t be able to answer the police questions, so they’ll have to bang me up. I can’t even explain how I knew about Hartwell or why I was there. As it is, the police must already think I’m the killer. A postwoman saw me covered in blood – and must have seen my car.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘For what it’s worth, though, I assure you I’m not the murderer.’

  ‘You don’t need to convince me. But what about your diplomatic passport – can’t you use that?’

  He had already thought about it, but he knew that the US embassy would be horrified and consider it a misuse of immunity. So would the State Department, and it was bound to end up there. Apart from anything else, it would make him look guilty. ‘It wouldn’t work. Not in this case.’

  ‘So, are you going to give me any more information?’

  ‘Not much. It’s better you don’t know for the moment. Wouldn’t do your career as a police surgeon much good if you started lying on my behalf.’

  ‘But why have you come here? Why not home?’

  He threw wide his arms to show his grisly appearance. ‘Look at me – I can’t let Lydia and Johnny see me like this. Anyway, that’s likely to be the first place the police will go.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. So what now? What do you want from me?’

  ‘Well, I need a change of clothes for a start.’

  Weir patted his rotund, well-fed belly as it strained against his tweed waistcoat. ‘Don’t think I’ll be able to help you there.’

  ‘No.’

  Wilde had started pacing the room, his eyes flicking towards the window like a hunted man. ‘That aside, what I think I’d like to do is give you a very plain signed statement of what happened when I was at the house. But it will not explain why I was there and so of course it will contain glaring holes. But so be it; I have no option.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Take it to the police on my behalf, say it was delivered in an envelope through your letterbox. The thing is, I know who the killer is. I saw him haring off on a motorbike. He was that young man who talked to me at Cambridge station after the Cazerove suicide. Remember, you and Sergeant Talbot s
aw him too? He told me then that his name was Mortimer. At least I think it was Mortimer – he mumbled it and it was probably false anyway. You must tell the police that they should be looking for him, not me. Tell them, too, that I will give them a full statement in person as soon as circumstances allow. My initial statement will contain a description of the man. But you can give your own take, as can Talbot. It’s possible Mortimer came back this way from Clade and there must be a chance he is known in this area.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  Wilde sighed. ‘I’m a fugitive. I’ve got to drive back to London as fast as I can and get to Grosvenor Street before an alert goes out for the car I’m using – it’s an embassy vehicle. But first I’d like to use your phone and make a very quick call to Lydia.’

  ‘Help yourself. God, Tom, I’m sorry you’ve landed yourself with this nightmare.’

  *

  She answered the phone at the first ring.

  ‘Lydia . . .’

  ‘Tom, where are you? The police are here.’

  ‘I thought they might be.’

  ‘What on earth’s going on, darling? They say there has been an incident near Clade. They won’t tell me anything more.’

  Edie arrived with a cup of tea. He mouthed a thank you.

  ‘All I can tell you is that I am a witness to a murder. Unfortunately, the police might very well think I was the killer, which I wasn’t. I can’t explain anything at the moment – but whatever you hear, you know I’m innocent.’

  ‘Of course, darling. You still haven’t told me where you are.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that right now, but you’ll find out soon enough. The fact is, I’ve got to disappear for a while. I’ll try to stay in touch by phone.’

  ‘Is this anything to do with your trip to Scotland?’

  ‘Forgive me, Lydia, I really can’t tell you any more at the moment. But at least part of it will be conveyed to you by the end of the day.’

  Another voice came on the line, a man’s voice. ‘Professor Wilde? Detective Sergeant Robinson here . . .’

  Wilde hung up.

  *

  Within fifteen minutes he had drunk two cups of tea and had written a brief and highly abridged version of events at Old Cottage on half of one side of foolscap. He handed the paper to Rupert Weir and thanked him.

  ‘What about the clothes, Tom? You’re welcome to mine, of course – but, well, my girth is twice yours.’

  Wilde smiled at his old friend. They both knew that none of Rupert Weir’s clothes would fit him. ‘I think I know what to do.’

  ‘Good luck, Tom. And don’t worry – we’ll keep an eye on Lydia and Johnny for you.’

  *

  He drove to college and parked outside the ancient gateway. Passing the porters’ lodge he was waylayed by Scobie, who raised an eyebrow at the state of his clothes.

  ‘Ah, professor, you’ve had visitors.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘The local constabulary, sir. Seems they’re very keen to make contact with you.’

  ‘Are they still here?’

  ‘No, sir. I told them you hadn’t been in college for some days. But they did ask me to contact them if I saw you.’

  ‘Then you must do so.’

  ‘All in good time, sir. I have a few tasks to perform for the next hour or so.’

  ‘Thank you, Scobie. And forgive my appearance – there’s a rational explanation.’

  ‘Not my business, sir.’

  His rooms had seemed bleak before, but now they felt like a sanctuary. He kept a change of clothes in the wardrobe by the single bed. Hurriedly, he undressed, rolled the blood-stained shirt, trousers, jacket and tie into a ball and thrust it all into the bottom of the wardrobe; he presumed the filthy clothes would be considered evidence and so would have to be produced at some later date.

  Dressing quickly in fresh attire, he gave his shoes a cursory brush, took a look in the mirror and adjusted the new tie. Suddenly he felt a great deal better about the world, but the sensation did not last more than a minute. The truth was he was beleaguered and could think of only one option: get to London and enlist Bill Phillips and the ambassador on his behalf, though what they could do he had no idea. What he needed was some way to explain his movements that didn’t cause problems for America or the President, and he would have to get Phillips’s backing for that.

  He didn’t often wear a hat, but today seemed the right time to make an exception. He grabbed his sad old dark-brown fedora from the hatstand and pulled it low across his brow. At the gatehouse, he was hailed again by Scobie.

  ‘Again, sir, none of my business, but I couldn’t help noticing that a couple of bobbies have parked themselves by your car while you have been in your set.’

  ‘Thank you, Scobie.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir, as always.’

  So that was it for the car. The postwoman must have got the number plate – or perhaps it was the woman in Clade who had given him directions. He recalled now that he had even given her his name; she’d remember that well enough as soon as she heard about the murder – and news always travelled fast in country towns. Small wonder that the police had made it to Cornflowers and the college at such speed.

  That only left the train. He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, lowered his head, and walked straight past the two policemen standing guard over the embassy car, tipping his hat to them nonchalantly, as though he had not a care in the world. They didn’t display any signs of recognising him, so he continued on northwards at a steady pace.

  In King’s Parade, he was just about to turn right towards the market before backtracking through Petty Cury and St Andrew’s Street and making his way to the railway station when he became aware of a car pulling up beside him. He paid it no heed, but he heard a voice, low and urgent.

  ‘Get in, Mr Wilde. Quickly.’ A woman’s voice. A voice to send a shudder through his body.

  He turned and found himself face to face with Claire Hart – the woman he now knew to be Harriet Hartwell. She was sitting in the driver’s seat of a tiny two-seater – a cream-coloured open-top Austin Seven – and she was gripping the steering wheel with the intensity of Nuvolari at the start of a grand prix.

  ‘For pity’s sake, get in.’

  Without a word, he walked around to the passenger door, pulled it open and slid into the seat beside her. The car was minuscule and his shoulder was almost wedged against hers. She immediately engaged gear and accelerated without much conviction. If this car had a top speed of fifty with the driver alone, it certainly had nothing like that with both of them aboard. It seemed to take forever for the car to get out of second gear and up to third.

  ‘Miss Hartwell . . .’

  ‘Don’t talk. Not yet. Let’s get out of Cambridge.’

  They were five miles outside the town heading south on the London road before she spoke again, almost shouting against the wind that whipped around their heads. Wilde had had to remove his fedora or it would have blown away. ‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said. ‘In that horrid little hotel in Scotland.’

  ‘Yes. You called yourself Claire Hart.’

  ‘I’m told you have something of mine.’

  ‘Your passport.’ He removed it from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘There you go. All yours, Miss Hartwell.’

  She looked at it briefly, then placed it on her lap without thanking him. She had her foot down hard and the car was going flat out, but it wasn’t going to break any speed limits.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘And I owe you some money.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me – but Mr Morrison the taxi driver would like to be paid.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I will see to that.’

  In Scotland, when he first saw her, he had thought her extremely attractive but had also decided he would perhaps not notice her on the streets of Belgravia. Now, as he studied her in profile, he realised that if anything the reverse was true and that she was eve
n more beautiful than he had thought.

  She turned to him. ‘You’re studying me, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘You may very well hear things about me, but I can promise you that none of them are true. I am a serious woman – and I expect to be treated as such.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I just wanted to make that clear in case you got any ideas.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have a family.’

  ‘That never stopped any man I’ve ever met.’

  Wilde had had enough of this. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not at all sure what any of this is about. I’m not at all sure who you are exactly – or indeed how you found me in Cambridge.’

  ‘Well, that was easy enough. I saw you arriving at your college. I recognised you and waited while you went in – and then the police started nosing around your car. They seemed to be checking the number plate as though it meant something to them. And then, when you came out, you were obviously keen to avoid them – now why would that be?’

  Her answer to the question of how she found him was unconvincing. As for the rest of it, he simply said, ‘I had my reasons.’ He couldn’t tell her, could he? He couldn’t tell her he had just witnessed the murder of her father. He returned to the question of their meeting. ‘You still haven’t really explained how you found me or how you knew my name. How did you even know that I had your passport?’

  ‘A little bird told me you had something of mine and that you were looking for me.’

  ‘Mimi Lalique?’

  She shrugged.

  He looked at her again and was pleased to see a tiny flaw: a little scar beneath her right eye. There would be other taints, too. There had to be, because there always were.

  In the silence, he could not get away from her father. He was horribly aware that she probably did not know that he was dead. And what, if anything, did she know about Peter Cazerove?

  After all that, there was another matter that had to be dealt with. Something larger in the wider world, hanging like a giant shadow over the whole business: the matter of a Sunderland flying boat crashing into a hillside in Scotland, killing the King’s brother. But not her, though. Assuming she had been on the plane, why had she been one of the only two who survived? Why was her survival being kept secret? Why had she even been aboard the plane?