Nemesis

by Rory Clements

‘Me, too. But there’s even more ugly talk. Look – I know he was just playing devil’s advocate, but young Lincoln Tripp suggested that the Brits might have sunk their own ship so they could blame the Nazis and turn US opinion against the Germans. Crazy, huh? But he won’t be the last American to suggest this sort of thing – most of the folks back home want nothing to do with this war.’

  ‘Tripp’s talking nonsense, you know that, Jim. We all know that.’

  ‘I know, I know. He knows it too, just doing the diplomat’s job of trying to work out what the other guy’s thinking. This is a propaganda war, you see – and who will they believe in the Midwest? I just hope our glorious ambassador doesn’t swallow the German line entirely. Anyway, that’s not why I called. I’m sending Lincoln Tripp back to London. We’ve got thousands of Yanks camped at the embassy trying to get away from the war. He asked if he could stop off in Cambridge briefly, as it’s on the way. He’ll only be there a few hours, but could you give him a bite to eat, maybe show him around? He’ll leave here later today.’

  ‘My pleasure, Jim. And you – how long will you stay up there?’

  ‘Until I know what happened to my beautiful wife and son. This is the home berth for the Donaldson Atlantic Line, so this is where the news is coming. I’m staying put, buddy.’

  *

  Wilde left Lydia a note on the kitchen table, then slipped out of her house and went next door to pick up his jacket and goggles. As he fired up the Rudge, he felt a chill in the morning air, a portent of summer ending.

  In the early light, the motorbike purred southwards through the almost empty streets of Cambridge. He had a choice of routes and opted to go through the quiet village of Trumpington and on into Great Shelford. Rupert Weir had given him directions to Eric Charlecote’s address and he pulled up outside a thatched house in a large tree-lined garden not far from the parish church. The gate carried the legend The Foragers. The house looked empty and bleak. In the driveway a soft-top black Riley Nine stood sentry. Twisting the throttle on the Rudge, Wilde rode on, turning south-east into Stapleford and then gradually turning further east, and a little north.

  He killed the engine on the silent, traffic-free road at the base of Little Trees Hill, then dismounted and looked up the easy slope towards the summit and the thicket of trees that crested its brow. To anyone in hill country, this place would seem as nothing, but in the flatlands of the east, it was a marvel, and the views were spectacular.

  With a glance back at the Rudge, he began the ascent. It was effortless – hardly more than 200 feet high – but to one with a disability such as Charlecote’s it would be almost impossible.

  A flock of goldfinches caught the light and dazzled his eyes. These hills, the Gog-Magogs, had always had a special place in his heart – and in the hearts of Cambridge students. In high summer, there was no better site for a picnic and a bottle of wine, all carried in the baskets of their bicycles. From the top they could gaze to the north and try to make out their college. The only certain landmark that was clearly identifiable without a pair of binoculars was the soaring contour of King’s College Chapel.

  On the way up the hill, Wilde noted faint tyre tracks; they could mean something or nothing. In the copse, still dense with summer leaf and tangled with briars, he tried to work out where Dr Charlecote’s body had been found. He walked through the middle of the little woodland, closely examining the dry ground with every step. Not far from the northern edge of the spinney, he found the place.

  Here dried blood clogged the dusty earth, marking the spot. He knelt down. There was not a great deal of blood, but enough to make it certain that this was the location of death.

  He found footprints in the dust, and more than one set. But why wouldn’t there be? People came here every day with their dogs or their lovers. He looked around for an empty shell case, but there was no sign of it. Of course, the police would have taken it away.

  A large dog appeared at his side, wagging its tail, sniffing the ground. It looked friendly enough, so he stroked its neck. He looked up to see a man in his sixties standing there.

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ Wilde said as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Retriever,’ the man said. He was dressed in country clothes, and he carried a rough walking stick. ‘I suppose you know what happened here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilde said.

  ‘Sad affair. I found the body. More precisely, it was Scout. My name’s Parker – I farm round here.’

  Wilde introduced himself and shook hands. ‘Did you know the dead man?’

  ‘I didn’t. Never seen him up here before. What’s your interest, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘He was a friend of a friend. There are some doubts that the deceased would have taken his own life.’

  Parker looked thoughtful. ‘Well, my first impression was suicide. The body was splayed out on its back, the pistol inches from the outstretched right hand.’

  ‘What sort of gun?’

  ‘Smith and Wesson revolver. US army issue from the last war. Recognised it at once.’

  ‘I wonder where he would he have come across an American pistol?’

  ‘Brought it back from France, I should think. We all brought weapons home – French, American, German. Guns, bayonets, helmets. Nice souvenirs.’

  ‘Did you find the spent cartridge?’

  ‘Indeed, a couple of feet away. His spectacles, too. Half-moon things – the sort doctors like to peer at you over.’

  ‘Nothing suspicious?’

  ‘Not as such.’ Parker hesitated.

  ‘But something’s bothering you?’

  ‘Can’t put my finger on it really. It was just – well, something didn’t feel right. But how could it? I walk Scout here every day, morning and night, hot weather and cold, and I haven’t found a body before, so of course it felt out of place. You don’t expect your dog to sniff out a corpse in rural England, Mr Wilde.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Wilde parked outside The Foragers in Great Shelford again, but this time he left the bike on its stand and approached the house. There was no doorbell or knocker so he tapped with his gauntleted hand. No reply.

  Glancing about to make sure no one was watching, he slipped around to the back of the house. He was about to check the doors and windows when he spotted an old man hoeing a garden bed. Wilde hailed him. ‘Excuse me, do you live here?’

  The man turned around without haste or obvious concern. ‘Do I look like I live here? I’m Jobson, the gardener.’

  ‘I expect you’ve heard the news about Dr Charlecote?’

  ‘Aye, I have. Don’t stop the weeds growing though, do it? And who are you?’

  For the second time that morning, Wilde explained who he was and his interest in Dr Charlecote.

  ‘Fair enough,’ the gardener said at last. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘You must have known the doctor quite well.’

  ‘Aye.’ He jutted his chin across the road to a small terraced house. ‘That’s where I live. Been neighbour as well as gardener to him these past fifteen years.’

  ‘Did he seem like the sort of man who might kill himself?’

  ‘He was hit awful hard when Enid died last year. Cancer of the blood. Shocking thing – wasted away . . . but I thought by last spring he’d picked himself up. Couldn’t get about easily, what with his hips, but he seemed a great deal more cheery.’

  ‘I gather he had bad arthritis. Made me wonder, how could he have got up Little Trees Hill?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ The gardener scratched his head. ‘It was hard enough work for him just to get from the car to the front door.’

  ‘And he couldn’t have walked there from here?’

  ‘No, no, that’s certain. And, of course, his Riley’s still here. Hadn’t put two and two together at all on that. Now this is a rum business, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is indeed.’ Wilde paused. ‘Do you know his next of kin, Mr Jobson?’

  ‘Two daughters, he’s got. Both migrated
to America about ten, twelve years back. One after the other. Vicky and Marge. Missed ’em awful, he did. They never came to visit him, he never went over there. Never even saw his grandchildren. Crying shame.’

  ‘You must have seen his comings and goings. Did you see him come home after work the night before last?’

  ‘Aye. I wanted to talk about the vegetable patch because it’ll all need to change now there’s a war on. But he put me off, said perhaps we’d talk at the weekend.’

  ‘Did he seem in a strange mood?’

  ‘Well – he could get a bit testy if he’d had a trying day. I thought nothing of it.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you heard him go out in the night?’

  The gardener frowned. ‘Now you mention it . . . about eleven, my wife said she thought she’d heard a car so I pulled back the blackout a little, and looked out. There was just enough moonlight to see the Riley was there and there was nothing showing at the front of the doctor’s house, so I thought no more of it.’

  ‘But someone could have picked him up?’

  ‘There’s no denying it, is there?’

  *

  It was time to move the weapons. They had been here, quite safe, since she recovered them from the floorboards at the secluded farmhouse, but her instinct told her it would not be a good idea for them to remain any longer; not since Wilde had followed Marcus here.

  The two pistols and the ammunition had been packed haphazardly in soft cloth, and tumbled out onto the carpet as she endeavoured to sort them out. At least in the other soldier’s kitbag all the constituent parts of the sub-machine gun were self-contained.

  Carefully, she re-wrapped everything, then packed them all into a single valise – the sort of bag a woman would carry; an item that would not arouse suspicion.

  She carried the bag down to the car, which was parked outside the Samovar, and placed it in the passenger footwell. Climbing into the driver’s seat, she switched the ignition.

  *

  As Wilde arrived at the college gate, he heard a car horn, turned and saw a nice little open-topped sports car being driven by a young woman. She raised her goggles and he saw that it was Elina Kossoff. He waved a greeting.

  She held up her right hand with her index finger extended like the barrel of a pistol. But the motion switched seamlessly to a gentle touch of the fingertip to her generous pink lips and she blew him a kiss. She replaced her goggles over her eyes, put her foot down – and the car roared off down Trumpington Street, heading south.

  Wilde watched her go, slightly bemused. In his mind, he was trying to place Marcus and Elina together in a relationship, and was struggling. Difficult to imagine what they might have in common, except for the obvious – they were both good-looking and young.

  At the porters’ lodge, he discovered that he had two visitors. ‘Mr Eaton and Mr Rowlands, sir,’ Scobie said. ‘Been here an hour.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘With Dr Dill, sir. I know that Mr Eaton is an old friend of his so I took the liberty of escorting them to his rooms. It perked him up no end, Professor Wilde. Would you like me to let them know you’re here?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll drop in on them.’

  Crossing the new court, Wilde saw that the door to the chapel was open. From inside he heard the strains of an unmistakable singing voice. He stopped and went in.

  Marfield was standing at the side of the choir stalls, sheet music in hand, singing Schubert’s Ave Maria without accompaniment under the keen gaze and critical ear of Timothy Laker. Taking a seat in the pews, Wilde closed his eyes and listened to the pure tenor voice as it filled the ancient space. His spine shivered at the sheer passion of this paean to the virgin, and he found himself wondering yet again about the contrast between Marfield’s extraordinary physical beauty and the perfection of his singing, and the worrying complexity of the rest of his life. What had drawn him to Spain? What had happened there to give him such nightmares? Who were his enemies – and what was he hiding?

  As the song finished, Wilde stood up from the pew. Laker looked over with a beaming, exultant smile. His star singer was back and the voice was unscathed.

  Marfield had his head down, studying the sheet music. If he had seen Wilde, he didn’t acknowledge him.

  ‘Bravo, Marcus.’

  The young man looked up and smiled. ‘Perhaps a little Catholic for such a Protestant place of worship.’

  ‘Oh, this chapel was Catholic once – as was I.’

  ‘I had no idea, Professor.’

  ‘Well, my mother is Irish and I was brought up as a Catholic, but I think you would probably say I’m lapsed now. What about you?’

  ‘Church of England. Anglo-Catholic.’

  ‘The prayer book you took to war?’

  ‘I confess there were times when I turned to it. Do you think it pathetic?’

  ‘Not at all. My only wonder was how it fitted in with your attachment to international socialism.’

  ‘Now, Professor Wilde, that doesn’t sound at all like you. You always told me to think for myself, that there were a great many more shades than plain black and white.’

  Wilde laughed. So he had got through to Marfield on some level at least. He turned to the choirmaster. ‘Are you finished with him yet, Laker?’

  ‘Not quite. Another ten minutes.’

  ‘Then I’ll come back shortly. I want a word, Marfield.’ Best not to mention the presence of Philip Eaton, perhaps.

  *

  Wilde was shocked by what he found in Horace Dill’s rooms. When he first met Philip Eaton back at the end of 1936, he had been as sleek and smooth as a cat. Now he was much diminished, his face gaunt, his body shrunken. The hit-and-run crash had taken his left arm, given his left leg a permanent limp and dimmed the light in his eye. He was a shadow of his former, elegant self.

  The MI6 man and his fellow officer Guy Rowlands sat either side of Horace Dill’s bed, where the old history professor lay propped up on a bank of pillows. He had not bothered to take down his blackout but had his bedside lamp on. The whole scene reminded Wilde of a tableau by Joseph Wright of Derby.

  Eaton rose with difficulty from the chair, aided by a stick. Rowlands, who was smoking a cigarette, made a move to assist him but Eaton put up his hand. ‘Don’t nursemaid me, Guy. You’re doing too much, but thank you anyway.’ He turned to Wilde. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘You, too, Eaton.’ They shook hands.

  ‘You remember Guy Rowlands, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Another handshake. ‘Outside the Cavendish back in June.’

  ‘He’s my spare part, if that doesn’t sound rude,’ Eaton continued. ‘Poor chap has spent these past three months looking after my work and now I’m back in harness he’s helping me get about. But I’ve got to learn to do it myself, you see.’

  Rowlands grinned. Hair thinning, grey at the temples, he wore an expensive pin-striped suit and some sort of club tie. Wilde imagined that Englishmen of a certain class would immediately know which club. The last time they had met, he had worn a regimental tie, and Wilde had been equally at a loss to know which regiment it might have been, except that the cannon motif suggested a gunnery outfit. As before, he had a yellow silk kerchief flopping from his breast pocket and a pair of small-bore bullets adapted as cufflinks. He removed his cigarette from his mouth and blew out a long trail of smoke. ‘Good to see you again, Wilde. I would like to be able to say in less dire circumstances than last time, but with a war on, that’s probably not quite right.’

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I am rather pleased to see you both,’ Wilde said.

  Horace Dill banged his hand on his bedside table. ‘Excuse me, if I might interrupt, there’s a fourth fucking person here. To wit, me.’ The effort of his outburst was too much and he collapsed into a series of wheezing coughs.

  ‘Ah, Horace,’ Wilde said. ‘I hadn’t noticed you there.’

  ‘Bugger you, Wilde.’ He brushed aside the glass of water Wilde offere
d him.

  ‘Well,’ Wilde said, ‘enough of this.’ He turned to Eaton. ‘I take it this isn’t just some social visit? You’ve come to see Marcus Marfield, yes?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘He’s just finishing off some singing practice in the chapel. If you go to my rooms, I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eaton. ‘You have done us a great service in bringing him home. We thought we’d lost him.’

  ‘And when you’re done with him, Eaton, I’d rather like a quick chat with you, if you can spare me a few minutes.’

  *

  Tim Laker was still in the chapel, but there was no sign of Marfield.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ demanded Wilde.

  ‘Went off to relieve himself. He said he’d meet you in his rooms.’

  Wilde headed off to his rooms, but Marfield wasn’t there either. He waited a few minutes, then cursed and went to the porters’ lodge, where he grabbed Scobie. ‘Has Marfield been through here?’

  ‘You missed him by about ten minutes, professor. Headed off towards the river.’

  ‘Damn and double damn.’

  ‘He asked if you were in college, sir, and I told him you were with Mr Eaton and another guest.’

  So Marfield had got wind of Eaton’s presence. Clearly he was avoiding him.

  ‘Shall I ask him to seek you out on his return, sir?’

  ‘No, leave it, Scobie.’

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Good God, the bastard’s gone rogue.’ Rowlands spoke quietly. He shook his head in disbelief.

  Wilde tried to lighten the tone. ‘Well, he certainly seems to be avoiding you both, but is that really what you’d call going rogue? He’s been behaving oddly, I agree, but he’s still recovering. He was in a terrible state when we found him.’

  ‘This goes back a long way. Why hasn’t he made contact in the past year?’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t able to.’

  ‘No,’ Rowlands said. ‘That’s not it. I think we know him rather better than you do, Wilde . . .’ Rowlands had been lounging in Wilde’s armchair, his Homburg occupying pride of place on the desk. Eaton was lost in the corner of the sofa, nursing a glass of whisky. One of them – he had assumed Rowlands – had found the bottle and poured them both hefty measures. The air smelt smoky and as Eaton didn’t use cigarettes, Wilde assumed Rowlands was the culprit.