‘Oh, very much so. It was with horror that I read your descriptions of the appalling behaviour of Mr Topcliffe and the agonies of the Catholic martyrs. A shameful time for the English church, I’m afraid.’
It was a conversation Wilde would have loved to pursue, but not at this moment. It also explained to Wilde how Harriet must have found him when he emerged from college on the day of her father’s murder: Bishop Fry had clearly passed on information gleaned from the biographical details on the fly-leaf of one of his books.
Tonight, he had other matters to consider. He was studying the house and it was anything but secure. It was a large, sprawling building which had been built over the skeleton of an earlier property, for though it had Georgian symmetry on the outside, inside it was a hotch-potch of styles with medieval beams in strange places and nooks and crannies and inglenooks in many of the rooms. There were five outside doors and eighteen windows, including ten on the ground floor. At least with the blackouts no one would be able to see in, but that hardly lessened the threat from a determined foe. Harriet was still armed, but he had no way of knowing how proficient she was with her pistol.
‘Can you arrange it so Herr Coburg’s room is close by Harriet’s?’ he asked the bishop.
‘Of course. Leave it to me.’
‘Thank you.’
He took Harriet aside. ‘Keep the pistol loaded and keep it on your person at all times. Stay close to Coburg as much as you can.’
‘You’re going to see your common-law wife, I suppose.’
‘I have to, otherwise there may not be much future for our common-law marriage. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
Coburg was shown to his room. His movements were sullen and listless. He did what he was told but made no attempt at small talk. Wilde tried to explain the situation to him, but it was hard going. ‘It is important you do not show your face outside this house – and that you obey Harriet Hartwell to the letter. Do you understand, Herr Coburg? You are not safe. None of us are, but we are doing our best to keep you alive.’
Coburg looked as grim as ever. His face was expressionless. ‘The Athels,’ he said, ‘they will come for me here.’
Wilde wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement. ‘Not if you keep your head down and remain hidden,’ he said.
‘No, they will come for me. They will finish what the snakes started . . .’
*
Templeman’s port-wine stain seemed to be throbbing. It wasn’t large, but it was very prominent and conspicuous and he had always loathed it. In his mind it looked nothing like a dagger, more like a grubby parsnip or carrot, because that was what Uncle Erasmus had told him when he was eight years old, roaring with laughter as he did so. A year or two later, Templeman felt eternally grateful to the boy who suggested it looked like a blade. From being an object of pity he had suddenly become a figure of romance. He had allowed himself a smile when he heard a little while later that Uncle Erasmus had been trampled to death by a herd of cows.
Rising from his desk, he stretched his arms and tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a difficult day, both in London and back here at Latimer Hall in Cambridge, and he was tired and irritable. He fixed his eyes on Quayle. ‘So they’ve left Grosvenor Street,’ he said, his habitual easy manner replaced by an uncharacteristic briskness and anger. ‘Where are they now, Walter?’
‘Our bloody men lost them on the road north, not far from Cambridge,’ he said. ‘There was a roadblock near Duxford. Wilde was waved through. My men were held up. Cursed bad luck.’
‘Perhaps they’re going to Wilde’s house. What do you think, Philip?’
Eaton shook his head. ‘Wilde’s cleverer than that, Dagger.’
‘Is he really? Heading up here to Cambridge doesn’t sound very clever. Yes, he must know a lot of people in and around the town, but it can’t be beyond our wit to find out their names and check them out.’
‘We’ll find him,’ Quayle said.
‘Make it quick. By the way, Walter, what was that business with Wilde at Scotland Yard? The Met weren’t at all happy.’
‘Oh, that was nothing, some young thug trying to get the professor’s wallet.’
‘It sounded more serious than that.’
‘I’m afraid the boys in blue overreacted, that’s all.’
‘Well, get on to what we know about Wilde’s friends. I want them found tonight. Understood?’
Quayle nodded.
‘Go on then, get on with it.’
After Walter Quayle had departed, Templeman poured a drink for Eaton. ‘What have we got, Philip?’ he said, handing him a brandy glass.
‘Almost there, I think.’
‘I’m worried. We’ve got to finish this – and finish it now.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
Chapter 41
Wilde had anticipated cold comfort at home. But Lydia simply put her arms around him and dragged him inside.
‘Lydia?’ he said when they finally disentangled. His face was wet with her tears. She was brushing his cheeks with the back of her hand.
‘Oh God, Tom.’
‘Lydia, I’m here now – I’m safe.’
‘I can’t live without you, you bastard. I thought I’d lost you. Why didn’t I marry you when I had the chance? To hell with the war, I’m not letting you go again.’
‘Lydia, darling, everything is OK. But I really can’t stay more than a few hours. This is just a flying visit because I was nearby and I had to see you . . . I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not going. We need you. Johnny needs his father.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got until dawn, that’s it.’
‘Then I’ve lost you?’
‘No, of course not. What are you saying? Of course you haven’t lost me.’
‘What if I say you can’t go?’
‘Then I’ll have to disobey you. Lives are at stake.’
‘Your new friend’s?’
‘Lydia, please, don’t be like that.’
‘Well, she means more to you than we do. That’s as plain as day. You’ve been chasing her around Scotland and England and God knows where else. Like a bloody dog, chasing the Whitehall bitch on heat or bicycle or whatever she is.’
Wilde guided her into the kitchen and made her sit down. He hunted around and found a whisky bottle, and shared the whisky between them in two tumblers. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘first I want to know about Johnny. How is he? And then I want you to tell me more about the visit you had from Walter Quayle. Johnny first.’
‘Oh, he’s gorgeous, funny, a pain in the neck, not a great conversationalist. I miss adult conversation, Tom.’
‘But healthy?’
‘Yes. You can see him before you go – but don’t wake him.’
‘And Quayle?’
‘That was a very strange visit. I didn’t like Walter Quayle one little bit. And that had nothing to do with him being a queer, as you know, because I loved dear old Horace Dill with all my heart, and he was queen of queens. I could even put up with Quayle’s dandruff and bad breath at a pinch, but it was his darkness – that was what made me shudder.’
Wilde picked up the tumbler and downed the whisky in one.
‘You know that was the last of it. We’ll be lucky to get any more before the end of the war.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get some from the embassy,’ he said absently. He was frowning, thinking of his time with Quayle on the road from Invergordon to Caithness and the crash site. He hadn’t seen any darkness, had he? He had never warmed to the man – but darkness?
‘What is it, Tom?’
‘You said you saw darkness in Quayle. I didn’t see that.’ But Harriet had, hadn’t she? She said she always loathed him from Athelstan days. Lydia’s impression linked to Harriet’s long-term knowledge of the man could not be a coincidence.
‘I have more intuitio
n than you. Perhaps it’s a female thing. Anyway, it was there.’
‘Oh no, I’m not doubting you. I trust your intuition implicitly. I was just wondering how I could have missed it. Tell me more. When did he come here?’
‘End of the afternoon – a few hours before your late-night call. I was pissed off with you, if you recall.’
‘He just turned up on the doorstep?’
‘Yes. That’s what happens when people visit, isn’t it?’
‘Didn’t call first?’
‘No.’
‘And he asked you where I was?’
‘Exactly. And I said you were almost certainly in London. Did I do wrong?’
‘No, no, of course not. I was in London. Did he leave a contact number with you in case I turned up?’
She shook her head.
‘But you were scared of him?’
‘I don’t think I said that. I was wary of him. I didn’t feel an immediate threat. I just knew that I didn’t like him and I showed him the door as quickly as I could.’
‘And he just walked away?’
‘He was driven away in a big black car. He had a driver, who was standing at the kerb. Squirt of a man. Looked like the runt of the litter. I didn’t like the look of him either. He touched his forelock, held the rear door open for Quayle and then they were gone.’ Her eyes met his. ‘What is it, Tom? What have I said?’
‘I’ve got to go.’
Somerset, 1930
Walter Quayle watched the boy for ten minutes, fascinated. The lad was kneeling on the stone pathway near the greenhouses, his face down. Every so often a tiny puff of smoke drifted up from the stone.
He recognised the boy as the gardener’s ill-favoured son Ned. The runt, he was called by everyone indoors, including Quayle’s parents and the servants. They all seemed to despise him as if he were vermin.
Quayle had no particular feelings about the boy. He wasn’t attracted in a sexual way but nor was he repulsed. Anyway, most of the time Quayle was away at school so he had nothing to do with Ned. Now, he approached him and watched more closely and saw clearly what the younger boy was doing. He had a cheap magnifying glass and he was concentrating the sun’s rays into a tiny speck of burning hot light, which he used to incinerate ants as they trundled across the path.
‘That looks fun,’ Quayle said.
The boy said nothing but Quayle heard something: a choking sob from the depths of the boy’s throat. Then a single tear fell to the stone.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ the boy said.
‘Your name’s Ned, isn’t it? You’re Mortimer’s son,’ Quayle said, knowing very well what he was and what they all called him, mostly to his face.
The boy nodded and more tears fell.
‘Can I have a go at that?’ Quayle asked.
The boy handed the magnifying glass to Quayle, who got down on his knees beside him and began picking off ants. It really was fun. After a dozen or so, he handed the glass back to the lad. ‘Why are you crying?’
The boy turned his face towards him and Quayle saw that it was swollen, bruised and there was a smear of blood from a cut beneath his right eye.
‘Who did that?’
‘I fell over.’
‘No, Ned, I want to know. Tell me – who did it?’
‘My dad.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The boy shrugged. His frame was so small. Watching him before, Quayle had noticed that his legs were bowed like a jockey’s. But it was malnutrition that did that to a lower-class boy like Ned Mortimer, not riding horses. Anyone knew that.
‘Do you want me to clean your face? I could take you in and get Nanny to have a look at you.’
The boy shook his head violently.
‘Why not?’
‘Dad would find out and hit me more. He’d hit me if he saw you talking to me.’
‘Why did he hit you this time?’
‘I took strawberries from the walled garden. Just a handful. He saw me eating them and hit me. But it was worth it; they were red and sweet.’
‘Where is he now, your dad?’
‘I dunno.’
Quayle was seventeen. He had one more year at Athelstans, then he’d be off to Cambridge for maths at Trinity. This might well be one of his last summers at home and he had brought his friend Richard Smoake with him. Today, Smoake had gone down to the lake with Quayle’s sister. They seemed to have something going on. Meanwhile, the house was full of talk about possible financial ruin and European and Russian politics. Quayle already knew which way the wind was blowing. Only men like Mussolini could save the world.
He ruffled Ned Mortimer’s hair. The boy shied away as though bitten. Quayle laughed. He reckoned Ned must be about ten, though he was about the size of a stunted seven-year-old. He left him to his ants. ‘Cheer up, Ned, we’ll see what we can do.’
‘You can’t do nothing.’
*
He caught up with Jonas Mortimer two hours later while he was drinking tea in the potting shed. ‘Ah, Mortimer,’ Quayle said, ‘I was hoping to find you here. I know what an expert you are on all things horticultural and I was wondering if you could identify these flowers for me.’
Mortimer was not a big man, but he had strong, tanned arms and a hard, weathered face. He looked like someone who had spent their whole life outdoors doing demanding physical work. ‘They’re snapdragons, Master Walter. Otherwise known as antirrhinum.’
‘Really? How ignorant of me not to know that. I so love flowers, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I suppose I do.’
‘Perhaps you could teach me about them while I’m on holiday. I’d love to know what they’re all called and how you grow them all.’
Mortimer looked uneasy. ‘That’s not really my place, young sir. Your mother and father might not like it.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about them. I could pay you, you know. Say a florin an hour for your time and expert knowledge? I’d so love to know a little of what you do before I head off into the big wide world next year.’
Mortimer’s eyes bulged, as Quayle had known they would. Two shillings for an hour’s work was a great deal of money for a man like him, especially when it would be extra on top of his usual wages.
‘Do say yes, Mortimer.’
‘Very well, Master Walter, we could give it a go – so long as you promise you won’t tell no one.’
‘It’ll be our little secret.’ He reached out and touched the gardener’s forearm below his rolled-up sleeve. ‘You have such strong muscles, Mortimer. They look lovely.’
‘Just work,’ Mortimer mumbled. ‘Just hard work, that’s all.’
Quayle smiled at him. In that touch he had discovered exactly what he needed to know. He had felt the electricity tingling in the man’s body, the soft dark hairs on his skin standing up uninvited.
The seduction took only three days. It was in the second of their hourly sessions that he asked Mortimer if he could touch his chest and feel his muscles there, and it was halfway through the third hour that Mortimer could stand it no longer and touched the boy back. He put his hand on his trousers, above the fly. ‘Do you do this in your bedroom, Master Walter?’
‘What’s that, Mortimer?’ he asked, all innocent, but making no move to push the hand away.
‘Touch yourself there, sir.’
‘It feels very nice when you do it. Perhaps you’d show me what you mean.’
On the fourth session, they were watched by Quayle’s friend Richard Smoake with his brand-new Leica and 135 mm telephoto lens.
The next day Quayle found young Ned killing ants on the path once more. ‘What do you do when the sun’s not shining?’ he asked.
‘I catch flies and drown them.’
‘Did your father beat you last night?’
The boy looked surprised at the question. ‘No,’ he said, his brow knitted.
Quayle put an arm around Mortimer’s thin, bony shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘He’ll ne
ver beat you again.’
Cambridgeshire, 1942
Ned Mortimer had a pistol with silencer in the front of his belt, a knife secured into a sheath strapped to his leg and a submachine gun cradled in his arms. His right hand was bandaged, but his left trigger finger would do. The car engine had been killed and its lights were out. They were half a mile from Red Farm.
‘We do this properly,’ Quayle said, his bent, angular figure looming over the younger man. He had a service revolver, but he kept it holstered under his jacket. ‘It’s an outside chance, but we have to try to secure the papers before we kill him.’ Even as he said it, he knew the odds were that the OSS would not have left the papers in Coburg’s possession.
‘And the others?’
‘Hostages to fortune, Ned. Trading counters.’
‘We could go in now.’
‘No, we wait until we’re certain they’re asleep. The girl has a pistol, so does Wilde. He’ll try to stay awake, but he will become drowsy. We move quietly and use silencers. The Sten is back-up. We don’t want a shoot-out if it can be avoided. You have to have that clear, Ned.’
‘Yes, Mr Quayle.’
‘Good boy, Ned. You were always a good, obedient boy, weren’t you? A fine servant to your master.’ Quayle took out his whisky flask and tipped half of the contents down his throat before offering it to his man. Mortimer shook his head.
It had been a simple task to arrange the release of Mortimer from police custody. The words ‘national interest’ could always be brought out to excuse a multitude of sins, but it was in these dark days that they carried the greatest weight. Thanks to his senior position within MI5, Walter Quayle was not a man to be argued with by a time-serving police officer like Foat. ‘Secret work,’ Quayle had said, tapping the side of his damaged nose. ‘I’m afraid Mr Wilde is not all he seems and so his testimony is to be taken with a pinch of salt. Mum’s the word, eh?’
Foat had been impressed at being taken into the confidence of such an important secret officer. ‘Of course, Mr Quayle, I totally understand.’
‘Good man.’
Chapter 42
At night, in his half-sleep, Rudi Coburg descended into a demi-world of his own mind’s making. It was a monochrome dream, punctuated only by splashes of red, but he knew it was real. He was on the platform at Treblinka surrounded on every side by serpents. Snakes, adders as far as his eyes could see. He had to get away, but if he climbed down from the ramp, he would be at their mercy, and they had no mercy. Twenty metres away, beyond the electrified perimeter fence, there was a forest of tall, dense trees; if only he could get there, into the branches, he might have some hope, somewhere to hide.
A Prince and a Spy Page 34