Wilde put an arm to his shoulder. ‘Do you want to sit down? Coffee perhaps?’
Marfield was catching his breath. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m off balance. I’ll be all right in the morning.’ He managed a smile.
‘How about that coffee?’
‘No, I need sleep.’
He had passed from a dream state to lucidity in a matter of moments. Was this the time to get him talking? Wilde plunged in. ‘That woman in London – the one with the pistol. If you’re in danger, then I need to know – and you need protection.’
‘That was Rosa. I knew her in Spain. We were comrades.’
‘What did she want of you in London?’
For a few moments Wilde thought he might get a straight answer, but it wasn’t to be.
‘I’m going to bed now,’ Marcus said. ‘In the morning I intend to watch some cricket.’
No, thought Wilde, in the morning we have other plans for you.
*
Lydia came around for coffee at about eight. Wilde arrived downstairs a little later, bleary-eyed, and then Marfield appeared.
‘I am going to the college to see if I can find you a set of rooms,’ Wilde said as the young man came into the kitchen. ‘Lydia, meanwhile, will take you to Addenbrooke’s for a thorough check-up.’ It was a firm statement, not a suggestion.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. The wound is healing.’
‘No,’ Wilde said. ‘You will do this thing – not for us, but for yourself. You need to be fit and healthy. I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that there is now another war on. There is every possibility you will be asked to join many thousands of other young men to fight once more against the fascist thugs. You will need to be sound in body for that.’
‘You know what I need most?’ Marfield sounded sulky. ‘I need to sit and watch a cricket match.’
‘If there’s any cricket to be had, it will most likely start this afternoon.’ Wilde hid his impatience as best he could. ‘By then you’ll have had a thorough check-up, and, with any luck, you’ll have rooms of your own at college – and you’ll be on your own. We’ll make no more demands of you. Before then, however, you can give us one little morning. Yes?’
Marfield forced a weak smile, then shrugged. ‘I seem to be outnumbered.’
*
The college, usually a haven of tranquillity, was in turmoil. Lorries were parked outside the main entrance and teams of men were carting boxes of books from the ancient library to be loaded up into them. Wilde collared Scobie.
‘Where are the books going?’
The head porter tipped his black bowler. ‘State secret, Professor. Somewhere safe where Jerry won’t be able to get at them. Perhaps they’ll store them down a coal mine, who knows?’
The books were irreplaceable. From medieval manuscripts to rare works through every century. ‘I suppose it makes sense.’
‘I believe they have been talking about the stained glass in the chapel, too. They started removing it all from King’s back in June. Very far-sighted. The question now is whether we should be doing the same? Will it do more harm than good, that’s the question. Need delicate hands and superb craftsmen to get all that out without breaking it. Anyway, no decision has been made as yet, I believe.’
‘The old place is being torn apart.’ Wilde looked about him.
‘They’re digging trenches in the courts. The bike sheds are being turned into shelters, so Lord knows where the bikes will go. And you’ll spot a bleeding great water tank parked slap bang in front of your rooms. That’s there for fighting fires. As are the piles of sand. And if you’re staying around, they’ll doubtless want you to sign up as a fire warden.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
Scobie chuckled. ‘Utter mayhem, sir. The bedders have been making blackouts and the staircase windows are being painted blue. That Hitler chap is a bad lot.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you about that.’
‘Anyway, good to have you back, as always. You may or may not be pleased to know that your gyp Bobby is still here, despite his attempt to join up. The recruiting office sent him away with a flea in his ear; said they wanted men, not creatures.’
‘On the plus side, he wouldn’t have made a very big target.’ Wilde smiled as he thought of his college servant. Bobby had been a jockey, but a bad fall had ended his career and left him with a twisted spine.
‘Indeed not, sir. And by the way, let me offer my congratulations to you on finding young Mr Marfield and bringing him home. We all thought he’d gone and got himself killed in that Spanish affair.’
‘He’s alive and kicking.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that! I’d give anything to hear the voice again . . .’
‘There was one other matter, Scobie. You know I left a scribbled itinerary of our journey through France?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Did you have occasion to show it to anyone – or did anyone ask you or any of the other porters about my movements over there?’
‘No, sir. I can say with certainty that no one has been looking for you.’
*
Lydia and Marfield arrived at Addenbrooke’s Hospital mid-morning. As they walked through the Cambridge streets, her hand went to her belly, wondering whether it was her imagination that it seemed to be swelling. She thought back to Friday August 4th when she had woken in a cold sweat and realised that she couldn’t go through with the next day’s wedding.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Tom – she felt more for Wilde than any man she had ever known – it was the thought that she wouldn’t be being true to herself if she went through with it. Mrs Wilde? It didn’t sound right. Marriage to any man, promising to obey him, would be a betrayal of everything she had always believed in. Telling Tom had been the hardest part, of course.
In the event, he had shaken his head with a weighty sigh and had then broken out laughing. ‘Lydia,’ he had said, ‘I would expect nothing less from you.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘No, I’m just surprised it took you so long to come to this decision. We set this date six weeks ago, we sent out two dozen invitations and organised a party and honeymoon, and you have to wait until the last minute to cancel it all?’
‘Not all, Tom. We can still have the party, can’t we?’
‘Of course we can. But no speeches.’
‘And the honeymoon?’
‘And the honeymoon.’
Of course she had known that underneath it all he was angry. But surely some small part of him must agree with her that marriage was a hateful institution, devised by men to turn women into property? But what now? Her brain was fuzzy. With a baby, what would Tom want? If the world was unforgiving to women who, like her, ‘lived in sin’ then it was a thousand times more intolerant towards their illegitimate offspring. The very word they used – bastard – tainted a child for life. Whole tracts of ‘good’ society would be fenced off before the poor child was even born. Who had ever heard of an illegitimate Cabinet minister? Who among the great and the good would allow their son or daughter to marry a ‘bastard’?
She wondered what she would have done if she had known she was pregnant. Gone through with the wedding ceremony, she supposed. Done the decent thing. Promised to obey him. Become the man’s property, bundled up with his chattels.
Well, these decisions about marriage and babies would have to be put off until they couldn’t be put off any longer. For the moment she had to apply herself to Marcus Marfield.
‘How long have you and the professor been married?’ he asked suddenly.
Lydia stopped, surprised. They had been walking along in silence for about ten minutes. To her left was the alley known as Petty Cury. Sandbags were piled outside the office where gas masks were distributed, next door to the post office. She was carrying her box and had lent one to Marfield. ‘Did we say we were married?’
‘Well, I sort of assumed. You know, given your sleeping
arrangements.’
‘Dangerous things, assumptions.’ Lydia laughed lightly – and was pleased to see him grinning.
A little later, just before they reached Addenbrooke’s, he continued the thread. ‘Of course if you’re not married . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it means there’s still a chance for others.’
She laughed again, somewhat embarrassed. ‘Let’s just concentrate on fixing your left arm, shall we?’
After a short discussion at the main reception desk, Lydia deposited him with a doctor who had long experience of dressing bullet wounds in the last war, while she sought out Dr Eric Charlecote. She had met the psychiatrist at a dinner party the previous year and he had caught her imagination by telling her about his work with victims of shell shock.
*
The Master of the College, Sir Archibald Spencer, KC, poured Wilde a sherry. Wilde took it without demur and pretended to sip it.
‘Your very good health, Wilde.’
‘And yours, Sir Archibald.’
They were in the Master’s vast study with windows to the west overlooking the old court and to the north overlooking the rather smaller master’s court with its aged and very beautiful mulberry tree stranded in the middle of a small lawn. There was no doubt that Sir Archibald had the finest lodge and views in all Cambridge. But not today, disfigured by workmen digging trenches and shovelling sand into bags, then building them up as protective walls. It was the enormous water tank that looked most out of place, but one had to be prepared: fire was the worst of the threats.
‘We’re burying all the plate,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘Still not sure about the chapel glass. It’s so fragile, we rather fear the workmen, however expert they are, will break it. As a Fellow, you have a say, of course, Wilde. What do you think?’
Whatever he said could be wrong. Damned if we remove the glass, damned if we don’t. He went with his gut instinct. ‘I don’t think they’re going to bomb Cambridge, Sir Archibald. Not the most industrial of English towns, is it? Apart from anything else we’ve got Duxford nearby with its Spitfires to protect us.’
The Master was a man of distinction and achievement. A rugby blue from his days as an undergraduate at Magdalene, he had carved out a fine career at the Bar, handling some of the highest profile cases in the early twentieth century with acuity and elegance. The Great War had brought a hiatus and he served at sea without seeing much action. After the war, he returned to the law and money. He eschewed the bench despite facing pressure to sit as a judge and, on hanging up his wig in his early fifties with a nice pile in his bank account, he was elected to parliament for a Hampshire seat, and served as a junior foreign office minister in the first year of Baldwin’s government. The death of his wife had broken him and he resigned. It was said Baldwin wanted him to have a peerage, but he turned it down. A year later he was offered this mastership. Thus far he had proved immensely popular with the Fellows. ‘So leave it in situ? If that’s what you’re saying, I think I agree with you.’
Wilde placed his sherry glass on the table and hoped his failure to drink it would not be noted.
‘Anyway, Wilde, you’ll be expected to do your bit. All the Fellows have been chipping in, boxing up books and so forth. And everyone will have to do their air-raid duty if they’re to stay here for the duration. That’ll include you.’
‘Of course, Sir Archibald.’
The Master poured himself more sherry, ignoring Wilde’s glass. He must have been a formidable prop in his rugby days and, later on, an imposing presence in the law courts. ‘I thought we’d done with war for good. Not at all sure how many undergraduates will turn up for Michaelmas, but we’re not counting on more than half of them. We’ve also lost six of the Fellows to uniform and I have it on authority that the science men will all be called off to various hush-hush installations. So my question to you is pretty obvious – what are your plans?’
What indeed? The question hadn’t been far from his own mind these past few days. He wasn’t British, but surely he could still join up and do his bit to fight the fascist crew? ‘I’m still debating the matter, Master.’
‘As I see it you have three choices. Scoot off to America, enlist in one of the forces here, or stay and teach – which I would consider war work. Education cannot be brought to a halt on the say-so of Herr Hitler.’
‘Of course not.’
The older man threw back his second sherry. ‘Anyway, this could all be neither here nor there. It’s no great secret that various ministries are thinking of moving into the colleges. We could well be one of them. Trinity was turned into a hospital during the last big show, so who knows what will happen this time?’
‘Do you need to know my plans today?’
‘Good Lord, no, Wilde. Take as long as you like. This thing has hit us all for six. I don’t want any of my men – or my boys for that matter – rushing into things. As for myself, it looks like quite a lot of my time will be taken up with Civil Defence for East Anglia.’
It seemed an opportune moment to bring up Marcus Marfield’s return.
The Master’s eyes widened. ‘Well, now, that is good news. Very good news. He left just before my arrival but I believe he had a remarkable voice.’
‘He’s still got it, Master.’
‘Has he indeed? Then he will be welcomed back with open arms. I assume he’s given up on all that Bolshevik nonsense.’
Wilde wasn’t at all sure he had, so he left the question hanging. ‘I was hoping rooms might be found for him.’
‘Of course. Easier than ever with numbers depleted. We’ll arrange it today. Have you brought him with you?’
‘He’s having a once-over at Addenbrooke’s. He didn’t come out of Spain totally unscathed.’
‘But he’s alive. That’s the important thing.’ The Master’s eyes strayed to Wilde’s untouched sherry. ‘Now then, Wilde, drink up. Have you been to see Horace Dill yet?’
‘I was about to ask you how he was.’
‘Go and see for yourself. He’ll be thrilled to have a visitor.’
So the old don was still alive. When Wilde and Lydia had taken their leave before heading off to France, they had both thought that they would not see him again. It would be a pleasure to drop in on him. But first he had a couple of calls to make – one to see if Jim Vanderberg had heard any news and one to an acquaintance named Philip Eaton. There was a question to which only a member of MI6 might know the answer.
*
‘I use hypnosis, Miss Morris. I don’t like electric-shock treatment – and no one has time for psychoanalysis unless they are very rich. But hypnosis is the thing. Gets right to the heart of the problem very quickly. And I’m very good at it.’
Dr Eric Charlecote was not lacking in confidence and self-belief. A slight man with a rather aggressive moustache and a brusque manner, his movement was strange and awkward for such an energetic man. He had walked stiffly and slowly as he moved the few steps from his desk to greet his visitor, peering at her like a specimen through half-moon spectacles.
‘So you will help?’ Lydia asked.
‘I will see what I can do. I’m sure my services will be called on a great deal in the near future, so it will be useful to me to brush up on the work. I like to think of it as healing men’s souls. The War Office will see it as getting men back in the trenches.’
Charlecote had an office on the ground floor of Addenbrooke’s, out of the way at the back of the building. Compared with the wards and clinical rooms, it was homely with a Persian carpet and a couch for his patients and a pleasing smell of rich pipe tobacco.
‘As it happens, Miss Morris, I’ve got nothing on this morning. Where is the young man?’
‘He’s having a bullet wound looked at, here in the hospital.’
‘Well, if you can guarantee he’s not a neurotic, bring him along directly. Can’t abide neurotics – particularly women of a certain age.’
Lydia didn’t quite understand what he m
eant by that, but she didn’t think Marcus Marfield was ‘neurotic’. She thanked Charlecote, and was about to take her leave when she had another thought. ‘There was one other thing, Dr Charlecote. I have been thinking for some time that I would like to train as a doctor, specifically a psychiatrist. Do you think that would be possible for someone my age – twenty-nine? Haven’t left it too late, have I?’
The doctor ran a finger across the bristles above his top lip and raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘Have you thought of nursing? There will be a great need for nurses in the war. Pretty faces and kind hearts – that’s what our wounded boys will need. Along with clean wards, properly laundered sheets and square meals, of course.’
Lydia hoped she managed to keep her irritation concealed. ‘I don’t want to be a nurse – I want to be a doctor. I have great admiration for the psychiatric profession, Dr Charlecote.’
His expression fluttered between exasperation at her temerity and pleasure at her flattering words. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I would suggest the Maudsley is probably the place. Or you could of course study medicine here in Cambridge. Bit late for the coming year though. You know, Miss Morris, there aren’t many women in our profession. The only name that springs to mind is Melanie Klein. Have you heard of her? I could call her and ask if she would talk to you, if you liked.’
Lydia smiled. ‘That would be wonderful, Dr Charlecote. Thank you, so much.’ She really wanted to ask a further question, but she knew what the answer would be. Could I have a baby and train at the same time? He would snort with derision and tell her not to be so damned ridiculous.
Charlecote clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that, Miss Morris. I could hypnotise you just like that. No one better at it. Bring the boy along and I’ll see what’s to be done.’
*
Eaton’s assistant Terence Carstairs answered the telephone.
‘Mr Carstairs,’ said Wilde, ‘it’s Thomas Wilde here, from Cambridge. I have been trying to call Mr Eaton at his home in Chelsea, but he doesn’t reply. Could you get a message to him?’
‘Ah, good day, Professor Wilde. One moment please.’
There was a click on the phone and silence. Half a minute later Carstairs came back on. ‘Mr Eaton is here and will be happy to speak to you, sir.’
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