Nemesis

by Rory Clements

  ‘Where’s Toll now?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. He must have graduated and left Balliol.’

  ‘One more thing, did you ever meet an old friend of his family named Guy Rowlands?’

  ‘No, should I have?’

  ‘So there would be no reason for him to know of your existence?’

  ‘God no, they wouldn’t have told any of their friends about me or Walter – or the marriage for that matter. The harpy wouldn’t have breathed a word. How would they have explained their son’s frightful behaviour at the Mother’s Union and the golf club? Why are you asking these things?’

  Why indeed? But there was something about Marcus Marfield that didn’t add up – and hadn’t ever since the mysterious Honoré had run Wilde to earth in rural France.

  ‘Just curiosity,’ he said lamely. ‘Now – how about that tea before it gets stewed?’

  *

  It was twilight – just after seven thirty – when he left Claire Marfield’s house. As he kicked the motorbike into life, a van across the street caught his eye. It was an ordinary dark-green delivery van, without markings of any kind, except that the driver’s side wing mirror was hanging loose.

  He had seen an identical green delivery van outside the college before he came here. That, too, had its wing mirror almost detached. Why would a vehicle parked near his college in the centre of Cambridge now be here in a side street at Histon an hour or so later? Coincidence? Wilde switched off the engine, dismounted and started to cross the street towards the van. Now he could see that there was a figure in the driver’s seat.

  He was three yards from the vehicle when it pulled out sharply and sped away. But he had already seen enough.

  The driver was a woman. The woman he had seen first at Le Vernet and then, later, in the early hours of the morning outside Jim Vanderberg’s house in Chelsea. She had had a pistol in her hand and had been engaged in a confrontation with Marcus Marfield. Rosa, that was her name. Someone he had known in Spain, he said.

  For a few moments, Wilde watched the van as it disappeared down the road, going south. By the time he decided to follow it, he had lost precious time and, for once, the Rudge let him down. In his haste to fire her up again, he flooded the engine and had to wait a minute before trying once more.

  When he finally got going, the van was long gone. He rode at speed back into town, hoping to find it, but in vain, and so he headed for home. He wanted to see Lydia.

  *

  She was in her kitchen and the aroma suggested she had something in the oven. Rupert Weir was there, too, warming a glass of brandy in his hands.

  ‘Food,’ Wilde said. ‘And drink. Now that’s the kind of welcome I like.’

  ‘Fish pie,’ she said.

  ‘You know the way to a man’s heart, Miss Morris. Anyone would think we had something to celebrate. I hope you’re staying to dine with us, Rupert?’

  ‘No, no, Tom. I just dropped in to show you this.’ Dr Weir patted the notebook on the table in front of him. ‘These are Eric Charlecote’s notes. I was hoping one of you two might make head or tail of it, because I’m damned if I can.’

  Wilde examined the scrawl and shook his head. ‘Bloody doctors and their handwriting! I suspect there are only two people who can unravel this and unfortunately one of those is dead.’

  ‘The other being Miss Hollick, his secretary,’ put in Lydia.

  ‘Of course,’ said Weir. ‘But how can I ask her to deciper it when she’ll know I stole it from his office?’

  ‘Borrowed, not stole,’ Lydia said. ‘And she might be happy to help if she can be persuaded that this might throw some light on the death of a man she cared about.’

  ‘Will you take it to her then, Lydia? I know it sounds cowardly, but I really don’t want to jeopardise my professional reputation. Confessing to light burglary of a colleague’s office might not go down too well at Addenbrooke’s.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll leave it here and wish you two lovebirds goodnight.’ Weir grinned and held up an admonishing finger in Lydia’s direction, then downed his brandy with a flourish.

  ‘Before you go, Rupert, I wanted a favour,’ said Wilde. ‘Can you get hold of some coroner’s records? Marcus Marfield’s father shot himself on Monday morning. Colonel Ronald Marfield. Down in Ipswich.’

  ‘Of course. I’m not sure if the inquest will have been held yet, but the coroner should already know just about everything there is to know. I’ll give him a call in the morning. And you, Lydia, go easy on the wine!’ He gave her an ostentatious wink.

  *

  ‘What was that about?’ Wilde demanded after Weir had departed. ‘Since when did Rupert Weir ever suggest self-denial or restraint in anything!’

  ‘Oh, just being proprietorial, I suppose, the way GPs tell one not to smoke too much as they’re lighting their own cigarettes.’ Even as she spoke, she realised this must be the moment. She smiled at him cautiously. ‘Actually, there was more to it than that, Tom . . . What would you say to the prospect of a child?’

  The question threw him. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

  ‘A child. You heard me.’

  His brow knitted. ‘You mean take in one of the evacuees? Why not? Good idea. We could give one or two of them a good home between us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. But it wasn’t quite what I was thinking.’ She took his hands. ‘Haven’t you noticed anything different about me recently?’

  His creased face betrayed his puzzlement, and then his eyes widened as it dawned on him. ‘Oh my God, Lydia, are you saying—’

  She nodded.

  For a few seconds, he held back, stunned, and then he took her in his arms. His heart was thumping and he clutched her tightly to his chest. ‘Is this true? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘How long? When?’

  ‘Eleven or twelve weeks. It must be due around the end of March. Easter probably – perhaps just after. Tom, are you pleased? I’ve been so worried about telling you.’

  ‘Pleased?’ He hugged her even tighter and kissed her mouth. ‘I’ve wanted this for longer than you could imagine.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to tell you for days.’

  ‘How did I not notice?’

  ‘Indeed. Rupert Weir suspected, so did Françoise Talbot when we were in France.’

  ‘Well, they’re doctors, aren’t they! But I should have realised, too – the tiredness, the sickness on the journey home, the abstinence.’

  ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you. I don’t want to publish poetry any more. I’m considering retraining to be a doctor. The country needs doctors more than ever – but how can I do that and look after a baby?’

  ‘You’re throwing questions at me and I haven’t even had a chance to adjust to prospective fatherhood yet!’ Wilde was terrified, and hoping desperately that it didn’t show. The loss of Charlotte and their baby all those years ago . . . his son would have been thirteen by now. Sometimes it felt like a lifetime away, sometimes it was only yesterday and the pain cut him to the heart.

  Lydia saw the fear in his eyes. There was little in life that scared Tom Wilde. Certainly not physical pain; you couldn’t be a boxer if you feared getting hurt. But any threat to those he loved, that was something else.

  CHAPTER 20

  They woke both rested and confused, and wondering the same thing: what next? Should they get married after all?

  As Lydia made coffee and cooked eggs for breakfast, she could see that something wasn’t right. She had never felt the need to compete with Charlotte’s ghost and nor would she start now, but this was difficult. She couldn’t just let it pass.

  ‘Tom, talk to me.’

  He looked up. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You can’t just disappear into your past.’

  He smiled. ‘I wasn’t. I’m happier than you can imagine, but I can’t help thinking of Jim up in Glasgow, not knowing whether Juliet
and William are alive or dead. It’s difficult to jump for joy at the moment.’

  ‘Of course. That’s insensitive of me. I thought you were lost somewhere else.’

  ‘Charlotte? Lydia, she would love you – and be happy for us. I’m as sure of that as I possibly can be.’

  For the rest of the meal, they talked about other things. Lydia said she would seek out Miss Hollick and try to persuade her to decipher Dr Charlecote’s notes. Wilde told Lydia about his visit to Claire Marfield’s home in Histon.

  ‘Would you go and see her? She must know Marfield better than anyone. And maybe woman to woman . . . you could discuss the men in your lives?’

  Lydia laughed. ‘I’ll do it – but you’re not going to turn me into a bloody wife, Tom!’

  *

  Wilde took his leave of her and strolled towards the Rudge. It was parked at the kerb, just in front of a black Ford with someone asleep at the wheel. It seemed a strange place to park for a quick morning doze. Wilde tapped on the car window.

  Slowly, the man’s eyes opened, but even before he saw them Wilde realised it was Lincoln Tripp, Jim Vanderberg’s charge at the US Embassy. Of course – Jim had said Tripp would be stopping off in Cambridge on the way back to London from Glasgow.

  Tripp yawned and stretched his arms, noticed Wilde and smiled sheepishly. He put up a hand in greeting and wearily wound down the car window.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Tripp.’ Wilde leant in and grinned. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Hello, Professor, what’s the time?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Couple of hours, more like three, I think.’

  ‘You should have knocked.’

  ‘Oh, I really didn’t want to wake you up. No, sir.’

  ‘Did you drive all the way down from Scotland in one go?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s one heck of a drive. I never knew your island was so big.’

  ‘It’s not my island – and it’s not big. It’s just that there are no straight roads. By the look of you, you need coffee. Perhaps a proper bed, too. Won’t you come indoors? I want to hear what’s going on up there.’

  ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had in a very long time.’

  *

  Wilde seated Tripp at his kitchen table and set about brewing a pot of coffee.

  ‘Is there any word yet?’

  Tripp shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, still no news on Mrs Vanderberg and the boy. But you know the shipping line got in an awful mess with their passenger lists. And with survivors taken in all directions, there’s a lot of confusion. Plenty of folks still to arrive in Glasgow over the next day or two, but I really think our best hope is the City of Flint bound for Halifax.’

  ‘They must be talking to the captain by radio.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but names get taken down wrong. I tell you this, though: the whole thing has got the wind up the ambassador. We knew he was sending his wife and most of the family home, but Jack was up in Glasgow yesterday and told us the old man is now insisting on sending them in batches. He won’t risk the whole bunch in one ship.’

  Wilde took the point. With nine children, Joe Kennedy had a lot to lose. He changed the subject. ‘Mr Vanderberg says you are interested in meeting people in Cambridge. Was there anyone in particular?’

  ‘Well, sir, I thought you might be able to point me in the right direction. If I’m to make my mark, I need to get acquainted with the great and the good everywhere I go in the world. And in this country, I believe London, Oxford and Cambridge are the places.’

  ‘Among others. But you’re right, the university towns are a good starting point. The problem is, though, Cambridge seems to be closing down for the duration.’

  ‘Well perhaps you could at least show me around your college, sir. I believe it’s one of the great old ones.’

  Wilde handed Tripp his coffee. ‘I was just on my way, but I’ll wait while you get that down you.’ He noted that the young man needed a shave and that his poetic hair could do with a brush or comb. Nor was his costly attire as immaculate as it had been when they met in Chelsea. ‘Perhaps you’d like to use my bathroom? I have that rarity in England, a shower.’

  ‘That would be swell, Professor. Sleep can come later.’

  ‘I even have soap and tooth powder.’

  Tripp grinned. ‘I think I spoke a little undiplomatically in Mr Vanderberg’s house, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you were forgiven.’ Wilde smiled. ‘And then, when you’ve freshened up, you can either follow me in your car or hop on the back of my motorbike. Who knows, we might even run into Marcus Marfield.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d sure like to see him again. And hear that voice.’

  Wilde smiled again. Yes, Marcus Marfield might indeed count as one of the attractions of Cambridge in young Tripp’s eyes. Whether he would actually find him was another matter.

  *

  Lydia stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and turned side-on to gauge the progress of her bump. Having told Tom the news, she was beginning to enjoy the thought of her pregnancy, could dream of the human being growing inside her and could think of baby clothes and all that went with it. They had talked of the chances she would be able to train as a doctor. Tom had thought it unlikely, but suggested Rupert might have some idea. He was surely the man to ask.

  She dressed, and then phoned Addenbrooke’s. Miss Hollick wasn’t answering the phone but someone on the switchboard said she was expected later in the day to clear out Dr Charlecote’s room and box up his possessions. Lydia thanked the receptionist and decided to try again later after she had gone to Histon.

  *

  ‘Is Professor Cook in college?’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling, sir?’

  ‘Tom Wilde.’

  ‘Just a moment, Mr Wilde.’

  While Lincoln Tripp washed away the long night in the shower, Wilde was in the hallway, calling his old friend Noel Cook at Balliol College, Oxford.

  The telephonist came back on the line. ‘Putting you through, sir.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Hello, Noel.’

  ‘How the devil are you? Still slaving away in the other place?’

  ‘I have been, though not quite sure what I’ll be doing now there’s a war on. Look, I know we’ve got a lot to catch up on, but I’m a bit pushed for time right now – just wanted to ask a favour of you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Chap called Ptolemy Marfield, I believe he read Greats at Balliol.’

  ‘Indeed, I was his tutor. Just left us with a First. Fine young man when you get to know him.’

  ‘What do you mean “when you get to know him”?’

  ‘Well, he’s not very prepossessing. Strong in mind and body, but ungainly and wouldn’t win any beauty contests. Mumbles rather. That sounds awful, but I don’t know how else to put it.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘I do, Tom. He’s just about to start teaching at a small prep school in Essex. I imagine he’s already there, settling in before term starts. One sec, I’ll get the address and number for you . . .’

  *

  Wilde got through to Ptolemy Marfield without trouble, but he noticed that the young man seemed cautious even as he explained who he was.

  ‘Why exactly are you calling now, professor?’ he asked at last.

  ‘You know your father is dead?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you know that your brother has returned to England?’

  ‘My mother did mention it.’

  ‘Surely it’s a big event for your family?’

  ‘In a way, I suppose it is. But I say again, Professor, what has any of this to do with you?’

  ‘Because I brought your brother home – and I’m rather worried about him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about Marcus, if I were you – I’d worry about yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.’


  A sigh and a long pause drifted down the line from Essex.

  ‘Mr Marfield?’

  ‘Mr Wilde, I’m still not at all sure why you called, but if I may make a suggestion, you would do well to get as far away from my brother as you can. I’d suggest ten thousand miles. A million if it were possible.’

  Wilde was taken aback. ‘And you?’ he said rather weakly.

  ‘I’m already packing. Good day to you, Professor.’

  *

  Lydia was about to knock on the front door when she noticed it was slightly ajar. A light breeze caught it and it swung inwards. She peered into the house and saw a young woman clattering a suitcase down the stairs.

  ‘Mrs Marfield?’

  The woman didn’t seem to hear above the noise of her own exertions. It was only when she reached the foot of the staircase and stopped to catch her breath that she spotted the newcomer at the door. She jerked backwards as though she’d been hit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia said. ‘I didn’t meant to alarm you. The door was open. I did knock.’

  Claire Marfield held her hand to her chest. Her eyes were wide with shock and something else. Fear perhaps? ‘Who are you – and why are you in my house?’

  ‘I’m Lydia Morris, Professor Wilde’s . . . friend.’ Suddenly she didn’t quite know how to describe herself. ‘He suggested I come to see you.’

  Claire went to the door and looked out in all directions, then closed it. To Lydia she had the hunted look of a startled deer.

  ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you.’

  ‘You just appeared out of nowhere. Of course I was scared. Now what’s this about? We’ve got a train to catch.’ Claire Marfield’s voice sounded tight.

  Lydia offered her best smile. ‘Have you got five minutes? It’s just, well, Tom was worried about you. Asked me if I’d talk to you . . .’

  Claire gave in with a shrug. ‘Come on, we’ll go to the kitchen until my taxi arives. But five minutes and that’s my lot.’

  *

  Walter eyed the newcomer with interest. He was playing on the kitchen floor with a toy wooden mallet that he used to bash round pegs into round holes and square pegs into square holes.