Another series of clicks and suddenly Eaton’s voice was on the line.
‘Wilde, it’s good to hear your voice, old boy. How are you and the delightful Miss Morris?’
‘We’re well, thank you, Eaton. I take it you’re back in harness.’
‘Only just. Relying heavily on a stick and the supporting arm of Guy Rowlands, whom I sure you remember from around the time of my accident.’
Accident? They both knew that the hit-and-run that had resulted in Eaton’s terrible injuries had been a deliberate attempt on his life; but nothing had ever been proved.
‘Yes, of course I remember Rowlands.’
‘He’s a good man, had to deputise for me when I was convalescing, which doubled the poor chap’s workload. Now he’s got an invalid on his hands as well. Anyway, enough about me, how can I help you?’
‘I wanted to ask you a question. Lydia and I have spent the past month in France, travelling around, staying with people. The thing is: someone found me – a stranger, who knew my name and quite a lot about me. What I wanted to know, Eaton, is how the devil he found me in a dusty, out-of-the-way village to the east of Toulouse?’
There were a few moments of silence at the other end of the line.
‘Eaton? Are you there? I’m only asking because it seems the sort of thing you might know about.’
‘Yes, I’m still here. Can you tell me a little more, Wilde?’
‘He came to me with a remarkable tale. He said he knew the where-abouts of one of my students – a young man who took himself off to fight with the International Brigades in Spain – who was being held at one of the French internment camps, Le Vernet. I got him out, and I’ve brought him home. All well and good, you might think. But it’s my involvement that worries me. How in God’s name could anyone have known where Lydia and I were? I left a vague itinerary at the porters’ lodge in case of emergencies, but other than that . . .’
‘What is the young man’s name, may I ask?’
‘Marfield. Marcus Marfield. One of my history undergraduates and a choral scholar of some renown.’
‘Ah . . .’
‘Does the name mean something to you, Eaton?’
‘Tell me a little more, Wilde. What condition is he in?’
‘No, hang on, Eaton. I called you for information. If you’ve heard of Marfield, then I’d like to know what’s going on.’
A pause. ‘Look Wilde, I’m going to take you in to my confidence. I’m only doing this because I trust you. Marcus Marfield is one of mine. He was passing information to us from the front line in Spain.’
‘You mean he was a spy?’
‘Call it that if you wish. Unfortunately we lost contact with him over a year ago. We thought he was dead.’
CHAPTER 12
To Lydia’s astonishment Marfield agreed to see Dr Charlecote. ‘I thought I was going to have to drag you there.’
‘No, I think it’s a good idea. I don’t like these sleepless nights. I don’t like my dreams,’ he said, ‘but I do have one condition. You let me take you for a drink afterwards.’
‘I thought you wanted to find some cricket to watch. And besides, I don’t think you have any money.’
He grinned. ‘Oh, you know, plenty of time for cricket. To be honest I’d rather look at you than a gang of sweaty men in whites.’
Lydia raised an eyebrow. This felt uncomfortable. ‘If I wasn’t old enough to be, well, your older sister, I could almost imagine you were making a pass at me, young man.’
‘Would that be so bad?’
‘It’s bad form to make a pass at the lady friend of a man who has gone out of his way on your behalf.’
‘Just a drink or two . . .’
A quick drink couldn’t do any harm. Perhaps he might even loosen up and talk about his experiences in Spain. ‘Very well, you spend two hours with Dr Charlecote and I’ll spend half an hour in the pub with you. Will that do?’
‘Half an hour it is.’
He was no longer wearing a sling, so clearly the doctors thought his wound was healing well. She pushed him along the corridor. ‘Come on, you’re turning into a seaside postcard.’
*
Wilde called in at his rooms. At the top of the stairway, he received a warm welcome home from Bobby. ‘I trust you had a fine holiday, Professor. Sad you had to come back to all this.’
‘Indeed, Bobby.’
‘Coffee, strong and black, sir?’
‘You read me like a book.’
Wilde had been unable to contact Jim Vanderberg: the US embassy couldn’t or wouldn’t offer a number for him in Glasgow and nor did Mrs Harley have his contact details.
There was news in the papers of the Athenia. Of the 1,418 passengers and crew listed, it was possible two hundred or more had died with many more injured. No definite figures as yet. Four ships were known to have helped rescue survivors: the destroyer HMS Escort, a Norwegian tanker the Knute Nelson, a Swedish yacht named Southern Cross and an American cargo ship City of Flint. Possibly other Royal Navy ships, too.
The big problem was that passengers had been taken on at three ports and many of them were last-minute bookings, so the Donaldson line was having trouble matching the different passenger lists with the names of those who were known to have died and survived. Most were still unaccounted for, so there was still hope for Jim’s family.
Wilde sipped his coffee and sifted through his mail. To hell with it, he’d deal with all that later. First he would call in on his colleague and friend Horace Dill.
*
Trudging up the stairs to Dill’s rooms, Wilde sniffed the air. It was strangely different. He knocked on the door and then pushed his way in. Horace was sitting there in his wing chair, reading a book.
‘Good Lord, Horace, you’re up!’
‘Tom Wilde. Heaven be praised.’ His voice was little more than a wheeze and as quiet as a whisper.
‘Heaven? Has the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact driven you to religion?’
Dill tried to laugh but instead began coughing. He gripped his chest. ‘Damn it, I can’t bear this.’
Wilde sniffed again, then realised what was missing – the stench of Horace’s cigars. ‘You haven’t been smoking.’
‘Can’t abide the taste or smell any more.’ The words came out slowly and painfully. ‘Perhaps I’ll buy myself a few more days or hours, but God damn it, Tom, it feels strange not to be smoking. I’ll never understand how an otherwise intelligent man like you has survived without tobacco all these years. Most odd.’
‘We could argue about which one of us is the odder, Horace. But anyway, you’ve already beaten the bookies. They must have had you down for dead months ago.’
Dill managed a smile this time. ‘Won’t you sit down, Tom, spend half an hour with me? You mention the German–Soviet pact – well, I have to tell you I have done something I never thought I would do: torn up my CPGB card.’
Wilde cleared a mountain of books from Horace’s sofa and perched in the corner. There would be other members of the Communist Party of Great Britain who would resign their membership, too. The Hitler–Stalin devil’s pact was too much to stomach even for those who had remained loyal through the Soviet purges and show trials.
‘Now tell me all about France. I can’t talk much, but I like to listen.’
Wilde took a deep breath. There was a lot to talk about, including the war. But he went straight for the matter that interested him most: Marcus Marfield.
Horace Dill’s rheumy eyes widened in surprise.
‘Was he one of yours, Horace? I always rather assumed he must be, but I never felt very certain. Despite being his supervisor I’m not sure I knew the young man very well. Outwardly charming, but he certainly never struck me as political.’
‘No,’ Dill said. ‘He wasn’t mine. I know you were angry with me when he went, but I swear to you I had nothing to do with it. I was as surprised as you were.’
It had always been rumoured that Dill had sponsored
students to go off and fight for the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War. ‘So if not you, Horace – then who?’
‘Just off his own bat, I suppose. I never saw him as political either. The lad had the romance of John Cornford, but I didn’t see the idealism.’
Dill’s voice was now so laboured it was almost inaudible. He started choking again.
‘Whisky?’
Dill shook his head, which only made things worse.
‘Water then?’ This time Dill nodded, so Wilde poured him a glass from a jug.
‘Have you spoken to Laker?’ Dill said at last, when the coughing subsided.
‘Not yet,’ said Wilde. Timothy Laker was the Director of Music. He had probably known Marfield as well as anyone.
There was a discreet knock at the door. Wilde opened it to reveal a porter, not one he had seen before. There would be quite a few changes around the college as servants and undergraduates raced off to the recruiting offices. The porter tipped his hat respectfully.
‘Professor Wilde, I was told you might be here. There’s a visitor for you at the lodge. Lady named Mrs Marfield, sir.’
Well, well, so Marcus’s mother had had a change of heart. That had to be progress, didn’t it? Now, at last, they might get to the heart of the young man’s problems. ‘Bring her to my rooms if you would. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’
*
Lydia waited patiently outside Dr Charlecote’s office. Marfield had been booked in for a two-hour session. She wanted to see if it had been any help – and to find out whether more sessions were a possibility.
During her wait, she tried to chat with the rather severe secretary, Miss Hollick, but she made it clear she had work to do, and did not have time to engage in small talk. To make her point abundantly clear, she stood from her desk and handed Lydia a bundle of torn and dog-eared magazines, then returned to her chair without a word.
Finally the door opened and Marfield stepped out. The light behind him seemed to give his stubbly fair hair a sort of glow, almost like an aureole. He strode past Lydia and along the corridor without acknowledging her presence. She rose to her feet and found herself face to face with the psychiatrist. He was gripping the door handle, his knuckles white.
‘Thank you so much, Dr Charlecote.’
He looked at her like a rabbit in the beam of a torch. ‘Indeed.’ He rubbed his moustache with brisk, tense strokes of his thumb and forefinger.
‘Did it all go well? Might I have a quick word?’
Charlecote pulled back his narrow shoulders as though startled, then quickly held up his wrist and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve rather overrun. Call me in the morning about Dr Klein if you wish.’
‘I was thinking more about Marcus Marfield,’ she said. ‘Can he be helped . . . his nightmares?’
‘I can’t say. Good day, Miss Morris.’ Charlecote nodded brusquely, and was about to take a step back.’
‘Wait, Dr Charlecote – what happened?’
She saw a flash of anger in his eyes. He seemed to be controlling himself with difficulty. ‘Your young man has been playing with me, Miss Morris. I don’t like to be played with.’ He turned abruptly and slammed the door shut in her face.
*
There was a knock. ‘Come in,’ Wilde called.
The door opened and the new young porter entered, touching his hat. ‘Mrs Marfield, professor.’ He ushered his guest in and left her standing in the doorway, facing Wilde.
He had expected a woman of middle years; certainly in her forties, perhaps fifties. But this woman, attractive but not ostentatious, was in her early twenties. Her hair was dark and long and curled around her shoulders and she wore glasses, which gave her a slightly bluestocking air. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. This couldn’t be Marfield’s mother.
‘Professor Wilde?’ she said at last, still not stepping inside.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. I was expecting someone else. Crossed wires, I imagine.’
‘I’m Claire Marfield, Marcus’s wife.’
‘Marcus’s wife?’ His voice betrayed his incredulity.
‘Don’t be so shocked, Professor. People do have wives, you know.’
‘I’m sorry. I just had no idea, that’s all. Please,’ he said, ‘Do come in, Miss . . . Mrs Marfield.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’
She shook her head. She might have lacked confidence, but she didn’t appear to be timid.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘I was expecting Marcus’s mother. He never mentioned that he had a wife.’
‘We married a week before he went to Spain, Professor Wilde.’ She paused as if to summon courage. ‘Is he really back home?’
‘He is. We brought him from France at the weekend. But I’m afraid he’s not here in college just at the moment. He should be along a little later, though, all being well.’
‘Can I ask – where did you find him?’
‘In an internment camp. It’s all a little bit mysterious, to be honest . . .’ The rest of the story could wait, Wilde decided. First he had a couple of questions of his own. ‘What do you know of his time in Spain?’
‘I haven’t heard a word from him since he went.’
Wilde led her to the sofa. When he had settled her, he went to the door and called for his gyp. ‘A pot of tea if you would, Bobby.’
‘Tea for two? Coming up, Professor.’
Claire Marfield was sitting bolt upright, her hands knotted. He pulled up his desk chair and sat opposite her. ‘Now, Mrs Marfield, you’d better tell me everything – then I’ll fill you in on what I know.’
The woman looked down at her twisting hands. ‘The thing is, I still love him, Professor Wilde.’
‘Did he tell you he was going away?’
She nodded slowly. ‘He said he had to. He was sorry, he said, but it was something he had to do. He wanted to marry me before he went, but then he said I should forget about him, because he probably wouldn’t be coming back. When I heard nothing from him, I thought he must be dead.’
‘Why do you think he wanted to marry if he intended to leave straight away?’
‘Who knows with Marcus? He doesn’t think like others.’
‘But it was a cause he had to fight for, yes?’
‘We never spoke politics. I didn’t know he felt so strongly until he went.’
‘How did you hear he had returned?’
Her glasses had slipped on her nose, and she pushed them up. ‘One of the college servants called me. I had asked him to ring me if he ever heard any news. This was the first time he called.’
As his supervisor, Wilde had always found Marcus Marfield easy to teach and receptive to both advice and encouragement. But while everyone harboured secrets, even the most open of men and women, it was beginning to look as though Marcus Marfield had more secrets than most. He had become a married man at the age of what, nineteen or twenty? And within days of his wedding, he had gone off to join a left-wing army to fight against the fascist rebels in Spain. Not only that, but according to Philip Eaton, he had agreed to pass on information, which made him a spy.
‘What matters is that you’re here now. But I do have a bit of bad news for you. Marcus was wounded by a bullet in the arm. Nothing life-threatening, but he is presently at the hospital to see that it is healing properly, which is why he isn’t here in college. The idea was to find him rooms here – but that was before we knew he was married . . .’ Wilde tailed off. How should he prepare this young woman for the change in her husband? ‘I think I should also tell you,’ he began carefully, ‘that he appears to have been rather disturbed by his experiences of war, which is no surprise, of course. Many men suffer nightmares and are haunted by their memories.’
Claire Marfield bent her head in acknowledgment. ‘I understand that, Professor. But I’m not sure he will want to see me. He said he loved me and I believed him, but I have to accept that he loved the cause more.’
<
br /> ‘Does he have your address?’
She nodded again. ‘I haven’t moved. I wanted to be there still if he returned.’
‘If I may ask, Mrs Marfield, how have you been supporting yourself? Do you have work of some kind?’
‘No, I don’t have work. I was at Newnham, studying history until two years ago. In fact, I met Marcus at one of your lectures in November 1936. I had to leave college though. Fortunately I have a generous trust fund set up by my mother’s father.’
‘I see. Do you want to wait here for Marcus – or shall I ask him to come and visit you?’
She took a sudden sharp breath and for a moment Wilde wondered whether she might cry, but she didn’t really seem the type. She was thinking, weighing something up.
There was a knock on the door and Bobby appeared with a pot of tea and two cups on a tray.
He placed them on the low table in front of the sofa. After Bobby had taken his leave, Wilde began to pour. ‘I know you said you didn’t want tea, but I certainly do. Can I persuade you to change your mind?’
‘Yes, thank you, Professor.’
Wilde handed her a cup. ‘This must be very difficult for you, and dreadful when he went away. No one deserves to be left in the lurch like that. At the very least he owes you the courtesy of an explanation. Look – I’ll make sure he comes to see you, all right?’
‘Thank you, Professor.’ Claire Marfield put the cup down and turned to him. ‘Please don’t tell anyone else in the college about our marriage. He always told me how he trusted you, but he wouldn’t want anyone else to know.’
‘I can’t promise that,’ Wilde said. ‘But the important thing is he’s home – and I will certainly urge him to visit you.’
‘He might not want to talk to me. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that he meets his son.’
CHAPTER 13
Lydia searched the corridors of the hospital for Marcus Marfield but there was no sign of him. Nor could she see him outside on Trumpington Street. All she could think was that Charlecote’s talking therapies or hypnosis had proved too intense and the young man had fled.
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