‘That’s very kind of you, but I won’t. Oh dear, I’m not coping well.’
‘I met Dr Charlecote once before, at a party. He seemed a very charming man.’ Far more charming than he had appeared yesterday, she mused.
‘He was.’
‘But I suppose he must have been very unhappy.’
‘Well, his wife died last year, but I really don’t think that was it. And he had suffered a lot of pain with his arthritis, but he never gave me the impression of being a man who would give up on life. The thing is, we never know what’s in another person’s heart, do we?’
‘That’s very true.’
‘You know, Miss Morris, the young man you brought yesterday morning was the last patient he ever saw. People came to him with a multitude of problems, many of them extremely distressing, and I always knew when one had affected him deeply. There was a woman in the summer who couldn’t get over the death of her twins in a car crash. Dr Charlecote was terribly upset by her story.’
‘Could something like that have driven him to despair this time?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. I had certainly never seen him the way he was after meeting your Mr Marfield. What was strange was that Eric – Dr Charlecote – wasn’t so much upset, as angry. I couldn’t understand it. He could be tetchy, particularly with people he considered time-wasters and hypochondriacs, but I had never seen him in such a blinding rage before. He barely spoke to me before he went home.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About two o’clock. He locked himself in his consulting room after the visit from your friend, then left abruptly.’
‘Would he have taken notes during his last session?’
‘He always took notes. He was meticulous. But they are private. I couldn’t allow anyone to see them.’
‘Do you think in this case we might make an exception?’
Miss Hollick’s mouth stiffened. ‘No, Miss Morris, I do not. Dr Charlecote would have been appalled at the very idea.’
*
Wilde arrived back at college, crossed the disfigured courts, and climbed the staircase to his rooms. Halfway up he was accosted by Bobby.
‘You have a visitor, Professor. Young Mr Marfield.’
‘Really?’
‘He just barged straight past me. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know what to do.’
‘That’s all right, Bobby, I wanted to talk to him.’ But, of course, it wasn’t all right. There were one or two friends, among them Lydia and his old chum Geoff Lancing, who had the run of his set, but certainly not Marcus Marfield.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Marfield was standing looking at the one picture to grace the walls. A painting by Winslow Homer of a boy looking out across a prairie.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s wonderful, Professor. Superb.’
‘My father left it to me. Whenever I look at it, it makes me want to go home.’
‘My father wouldn’t leave me anything.’
It was the moment Wilde had been putting off. ‘Look – I have some bad news. Your father’s dead, I’m afraid.’
Marfield turned around, as though bitten. His hands were in his pockets, his injured left arm minus sling and clearly functional again. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, that’s nonsense. It can’t be true.’
‘I spoke to your mother on the telephone. I hate to be the person to break it to you.’ Wilde moved forward and took Marfield gently by his right arm. ‘Come on, sit down. We really need to talk about a few things.’
‘I’d rather stand, I think.’
‘And I’d rather we didn’t, and as these are my rooms, I think you should accede to my wishes. Yes?’
Marfield shrugged. ‘If you insist.’
Wilde took the desk chair while Marfield removed his hands from his pockets and placed himself rather stiffly on the sofa. He sat there with rigid shoulders like a tailor’s dummy, his back hardly touching the cushions.
‘My father . . .’
There was no point in dissembling. ‘It seems he took his own life.’
‘My God, I had no idea. I thought the bastard would live forever.’
‘Well, you’ve been away a long time.’ Wilde studied the young man closely. He had definitely been shocked to hear of his father’s demise; now he was feigning indifference. ‘Were you close?’
‘Oh, once upon a time, but then . . . well, things went awry.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘What of my mother?’
‘She is deeply affected. I’m afraid she seems to hold you accountable in some way and she’s not in a very forgiving mood. This is only supposition on my part,’ he added hastily.
Marfield looked askance at Wilde. ‘So she doesn’t want to talk to me?’ he said eventually.
‘No, but I think Claire does.’
‘Claire?’
‘Your wife.’
‘Ah, so you know about her, do you? How did that come about?’ Marfield spoke as casually as if he were asking about the cricket score.
‘She came here yesterday. She thought you might like to meet your son. His name is Walter Marcus.’
Marfield looked away, towards the Winslow Homer painting.
‘She’s not expecting anything of you.’
He turned back and his eyes met Wilde’s. ‘You are a sentimental man, Professor. You want to get lovers together, put the world to rights and give everyone a happy ending, just like the flicks.’
‘And you aren’t sentimental?’ Wilde demanded, suddenly angry. ‘You go off to fight for a foreign cause like some latter-day Byron and you say there’s no romance in your soul? That doesn’t add up.’
Marfield laughed, but Wilde didn’t.
‘Misplaced romance, I’d suggest,’ Wilde continued. ‘Forgive me for being judgmental, but I really think you should have stayed with your wife while she brought your son into the world.’
‘I hadn’t thought you quite so bourgeois, Professor.’
‘God damn it, Marfield, don’t spout your bloody agitprop slogans at me! As it happens, she isn’t expecting anything of you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t owe her anything.’
‘Oh, you’re right, of course. The rational college Fellow speaks. But I can’t go to her, you see. It would be too dangerous. And she should never have come here. But she always was a damned idiot.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I mean that if they knew about her and my child, they would get to me through them. Isn’t that obvious? I’m trying to keep her and the boy safe, for pity’s sake. That’s why I’m not making contact.’
‘They? Who exactly are you talking about?’
‘My enemies. I think we’ve been through this already, but you don’t take me seriously. It still hasn’t occurred to you that you and Miss Morris are in danger merely for being associated with me. You don’t know these people.’
‘Do you have secrets?’
‘I know secrets. And if you need proof that I am in danger, remember the sniper’s bullet at Le Vernet. Remember the woman with the pistol in Chelsea? I know when I’m being followed, Professor. War sharpens the senses. I knew I was being followed today, all the way to the cafe. Did you think you weren’t seen?’
Wilde had thought just that, of course. He clearly wasn’t as skilful as he had imagined. ‘I wanted to chat with you, that’s all. Nothing sinister. But when I saw you with the girl in the tea shop I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘Very thoughtful of you, Professor.’
‘She’s a pretty girl, Elina.’
‘Is she? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Not sure I believe that.’
‘If you must know, she’s an old girlfriend from times gone by. Even before Claire. No, that’s not true, they coincided.’
‘She’s a few years older than you isn’t she?’
‘Is there a problem with that? Look, the truth is that when Claire got pregnant, I had to end it with Elina. When I saw h
er this morning I just ducked in to say hello, hoping there were no hard feelings.’
It was a plausible enough explanation. But more answers were needed. Wilde went straight in. ‘Yesterday you spent two hours with Dr Eric Charlecote. How did that go?’
‘The bloody hypnotist? What of him?’
‘I was wondering whether he helped you at all. Perhaps you managed to sleep better last night. No nightmares . . .’
‘Oh they’re still there. Damned quack.’ Marfield made a dismissive gesture.
‘He thought you were playing him along.’
Marfield shrugged.
Wilde waited, his eyes on his guest’s averted face. At last he spoke, softly, little more than a whisper. ‘What did you do last night, Marfield? Where were you?’
The young man’s eyebrow creased as though bewildered by the question. ‘I had some supper from the Buttery, I read, I went to bed. Why? Is this an interrogation?’
‘I feel responsible for you – you disappeared on my watch.’
‘Well I’m a big boy now, battle hardened, so you don’t need to worry about me any more. Anyway, I’m not worth it. I’m bad news.’
‘It’s not that simple though. You see, I know things about you.’ Wilde was about to tell him that they had an acquaintance in common, Philip Eaton, but at the last moment he held back. Not now, not yet.
‘Really? What do you think you know?’
‘I think you may not be as charming as you seem.’
‘Who is, for God’s sake?’
‘And I wanted to tell you something. A little item of news you probably haven’t heard. Dr Charlecote is dead.’
Marfield nodded. ‘I know. That’s why I came up here to see you.’
Wilde decided it was time to get the whisky bottle. He poured them both a healthy shot, then sat down again.
‘You’d better explain.’
‘They must have killed him. He was a hypnotist – should have been on the bloody stage doing tricks. But they must have thought I told him things in a trance.’
‘Is that what you thought? Is that why you were angry?’
‘I didn’t want to be bloody hypnotised! I was inveigled into going to the man against my better judgement. But I couldn’t have told him anything, because there was nothing to tell. That’s probably what made him so angry. He probably wanted gory details. All the blood and guts and severed limbs I had seen, all the stuff that shatters men’s nerves. I wasn’t at Guernica, but I was at plenty of other places where the bombs tore people apart. Not sure exactly what I told him, but it clearly wasn’t enough for his morbid tastes.’
This didn’t make sense. ‘Look – whatever you did or did not tell Dr Charlecote, how on earth could your “enemies” have even known about your session?’
‘They know everything.’ Marfield spoke sullenly.
‘That’s it? That’s your answer?’ This really was beginning to sound like full-blown paranoia. Except there had been a woman with a pistol in London, and Dr Charlecote was dead, in circumstances his friend Rupert Weir considered suspicious.
Marfield shrugged again.
‘And you still haven’t explained how you found out Dr Charlecote was dead.’
‘I called Addenbrooke’s first thing this morning. I wanted to say sorry, you see. It wasn’t Charlecote’s fault he was so useless, and so I thought he deserved an apology. The man on the switchboard told me what had happened. He intimated it was suicide, but I didn’t believe that for a second. That’s why I’m so scared, Professor. Cambridge isn’t safe.’
CHAPTER 16
Wilde stood up. ‘I’m taking you to the police. If you’re in danger, they’ll protect you.’
‘No,’ Marfield said. ‘Not the police.’
Wilde had had enough. ‘Then look after yourself! You seem to have managed that quite adequately during two years of one the bloodiest wars known to mankind. As you say, you’re battle hardened. So the choice is yours. But I will be talking to the Master and Fellows about your marriage and we will be discussing whether you are a suitable person to be continuing your studies. Sir Archibald will certainly have second thoughts about allowing you the use of rooms in college, and I don’t think I’ll be disagreeing with him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to get on with.’
Wilde was a strong man, an amateur boxer, and he hustled Marfield from the room without difficulty. Closing the door after him, he sank into his sofa and put his feet up for a few moments. But then he had a sudden thought; another word with Timothy Laker might be in order.
*
Laker was listening to Debussy on the gramophone. A coal fire was burning in the hearth, despite the warmth of late summer. It was a well-presented room, with an expensive baby-grand piano and some very modern paintings on the walls. As always, the choirmaster was welcoming. He leapt to his feet and turned down the volume.
‘Cold, Laker?’
‘A fire cheers the soul, Wilde.’ Laker ushered him in. ‘If you’ve come in search of whisky, you’re out of luck. All I can offer is tea.’
‘No, I’ve come in search of a name. Actually, I’ve come to suggest a name. The lad who complained about Marcus Marfield – would I be correct in thinking that was Gus Percheron? I think he read modern languages.’
Laker laughed. ‘The detective at work! What makes you think it was Percheron?’
‘Because they were on the same stairs and they had been to the same school. I suspect this is a complaint that had a bit of history to it.’
‘Wilde, you know the complaint was made in confidence. I can’t possibly confirm your suggestion . . .’
‘But you’re not going to deny it either, are you?’
Laker shrugged. ‘Just don’t implicate me, all right?’
Wilde went up to his own rooms and called through to the porters’ lodge. A couple of minutes later, they came up with a telephone number and London address for the Percherons. Wilde immediately called, but the only person at home was a maid, who told him that Captain Percheron had been called up as a reservist.
‘What of his son, Gus . . . Angus?’ Percheron had been a shy, rather diffident young man on arrival at college, perhaps because he was on the small side, but he had grown in confidence these past two or three years and Wilde knew he was held in high regard as a linguist.
‘He has travelled to the west country with his mother and sister. They are staying with friends for a few days. I believe they will be home by Sunday. Would you like me to ask them to call you?’
‘Thank you. It’s Gus I want to speak with.’ Any clues to the truth about Marcus Marfield would be welcome. Despite giving him the brush-off, the fact was Wilde couldn’t get the man out of his mind.
*
Wilde found Lydia in her sitting room, dozing. When she was awake they discussed their days. Lydia had had more than enough of Marfield.
‘I just want to get on with my own life. There are things I have to do.’
‘Me too, Lydia. I used to think he was a fine young man. The more I learn, the more I dislike him. I’m sick of the sight of him.’
But neither of them could quite bear to let the subject drop.
‘You know that Dr Charlecote kept meticulous notes?’ said Lydia. ‘I imagine he would have done so after his session with Marcus, but I couldn’t get anything out of Miss Hollick. Do you think Rupert Weir might be able to help?’
Wilde called the physician who listened intently. ‘A good thought, Tom. Eric was a stickler for notes. I think we should take a look at them.’
‘Could you get access to his office?’
‘Well, they might just drop in to my hands. Strange what can happen in a public hospital, people wandering around as though they own the place . . . Will you be in college tomorrow? I’ll call in on you.’
*
Wilde woke early. The telephone was ringing downstairs. He was in bed with Lydia, but she was still asleep. Cursing silently, he dragged himself downstairs and picked up the han
dset.
‘Hello?’
‘Tom, it’s Jim. I’m still in Glasgow. Still living in hope. The passenger lists are chaotic, but there’s a good chance Juliet and William are on the City of Flint, headed west, for Halifax, Nova Scotia.’
‘Did someone tell you that?’
‘No, but the good news – if there is such a thing in this God-awful atrocity – is that their bodies have not been found.’ For a moment, Jim’s voice faded, but then he recovered. ‘It seems the rescuers had plenty of time to get survivors off the ship and into lifeboats. They even went back hours later for a woman lying unconscious in the sick bay.’
‘But there were a lot of casualties, yes?’ Wilde spoke cautiously.
‘Over a hundred certain deaths. One lot chewed up in the prop of a rescue ship. Too awful to contemplate. A few dozen injured in hospitals here and in Galway. I’m running out of good resolutions to this, so I’m pinning my hopes on the Flint. For all our sakes – particularly Henry – I have to stay positive.’
‘How is Henry?’
‘Tough, square-jawed, tears have dried – but I can see through that. He’s a big strong boy, as you know, but he’s miserable, poor lad . . .’
‘Jim?’ Wilde could hear that his friend was choking back tears.
‘What a boy. God, Tom, I hope you have kids one day. I’m sorry, I’m trying to hold it together.’
Wilde didn’t know what to say. He’d have liked children, too. He thought of the baby he had lost with his wife Charlotte in childbirth, and he thought of his failure to marry Lydia; the chances of fatherhood were looking increasingly slim. He changed the subject. ‘How are you spending your time up there?’
‘Organising, buddy. Making myself available to the survivors and their families. Keeping London and Washington in the loop. Listening to a lot of complaints and demands, if truth be told. They are very happy with their treatment by the Scottish people and their hospitals, but they all say the same thing – why in God’s name didn’t the Athenia have a US Navy escort? And they don’t want to go on another ship unless it’s in a convoy and has the American flag painted large on the side of the vessel.’
‘I can see their point.’
Nemesis Page 11
