‘Indeed I do. The duty sergeant had to call Inspector Tomlinson at home. He was reluctant to let evidence out of the station, but when I mentioned your name, he weakened.’ Weir removed the Charlecote bullet from the envelope and placed it side by side with the Kossoff bullet on the bedside table. ‘Well, obviously, one’s been fired and damaged by contact with bone and the other is pristine, but I’d say they were from the same batch.’
‘That’s all I need,’ Eaton said. ‘I’m not sure what Marfield and Miss Kossoff are up to, but I have no doubt that they are working for our enemies. They must be picked up and either charged or interned.’
‘He’s not at college. I just checked,’ Wilde said.
‘Well, I want every officer in the county on his tail. The whole country if necessary. And we’ll need photographs distributed. We have surveillance pictures of Miss Kossoff, perhaps you would find one of Marfield, Wilde? I’m sure the college will have one. Pass me the telephone, would you, Dr Weir?’
*
The only college photograph Wilde could find was a small, grainy one of the choir, Marfield looking away, his head blurred by movement. It wouldn’t do.
‘Why do you need it, Wilde?’ Tim Laker asked.
‘I’d rather not say, just for the moment.’
‘Well, his mother must have plenty, but from what you say she may not be cooperative.’
The obvious move was to leave it to the police, but when Wilde suggested that to Eaton, the MI6 man wasn’t happy with the idea. ‘From what you say, the mother is not an easy woman, so I wouldn’t want to trust this to a local bobby. Would you mind going down there, Wilde? Damn it, this is not going well.’
‘What’s the matter, Eaton?’
‘Oh, you know, internecine warfare. Strictly speaking, this is Five territory, counter-espionage, backed up by Special Branch. They don’t always take kindly to us sticking our noses in. I’ve tried to explain that my involvement emanates from events abroad, but they’re still sniffy. “Do you really think we have the manpower to hunt down a man and a woman with no evidence of wrongdoing?” is the official line from Liddell. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” The problem is, Wilde, I can’t explain the bullet.’
‘Not even off the record?’
‘Yes, of course, off the record. But while that works with Liddell and the boys at Five, it won’t wash with Special Branch and the local constabularies. I need that picture.’
*
The sixty-mile ride eastwards to Ipswich took two hours. Wilde found the Marfield house with difficulty, on the north side of the town, in open countryside, up a long incline through farmland. He pulled up in front of an old and quite grand Georgian-fronted farmhouse with an overgrown hedgerow and what looked like a disused well at the edge of the forecourt.
It had a neglected air. The gardens to left and right of the house were untended and the gravel driveway was thick with weeds. He noticed a side window covered in boards as though it had been broken. He rang the doorbell and waited.
A woman of middle years answered the door and Wilde knew immediately that she was Marfield’s mother. She shared his startling good looks, though her figure was perhaps not what it had once been. She was tall, almost as tall as Wilde himself. Her eyes were dull blue and her fair hair had a little grey in it. Fading beauty.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I’m Thomas Wilde. Professor Wilde.’
‘Ah, well, good day to you,’ she said and began to close the door on him. He thrust his boot forward to pin the door open.
‘Just a few words, please. I won’t detain you.’
‘I have nothing to say to you, Mr Wilde.’
‘I understand that, but I have ridden two hours to come here. Marcus is in trouble and it is possible we might be able to prevent him doing anything more foolish than he has already done.’
‘I know no one called Marcus.’
‘That is simply not true. I realise that things have not gone well between you, but Marcus is your flesh and blood.’
Margaret Marfield glared at Wilde and then, suddenly, her shoulders slumped and she sighed. ‘You are very persistent, Professor Wilde. Come indoors and I will listen. That’s all.’ She looked down at his dusty boots. ‘Perhaps you would remove those first?’
He took off his boots and followed her through to the sitting room. The room looked as if it been at the epicentre of an explosion. Like the garden, this room had a neglected feel to it with peeling paintwork and a threadbare carpet, and it was in chaos. Papers had been tipped up across the floor, books scattered everywhere, cushions slashed.
‘What on earth has happened here?’ Wilde was shocked.
‘I was burgled. The whole house was ransacked.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs Marfield. Did they get away with much?’
‘They? You mean he, of course. Marcus or one of his ghastly chums did this. And no, as far as I can see nothing is missing.’ She sighed again. ‘I suppose you’d better sit down, Mr Wilde. I’d call for the maid to make us a pot of tea, but I dismissed her earlier today. A widow’s pension will not keep this house going for long.’
‘Have the police been?’
‘What for? I know who did it.’
‘But the police would be interested. They’re already looking for Marcus.’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. What has he done apart from this?’
Could she take the truth? Wilde wasn’t in the mood to dissemble. ‘It’s feared he may be mixed up in something illegal. The details are unknown. But if he can be found and caught, he might be prevented from doing himself and others harm. The police need a good photograph of him. That’s why I’m here.’
Margaret Marfield and Wilde were still standing. She held up her palm and swivelled slowly round the room. ‘See what you can find, professor.’
Wilde rifled through the debris, the broken ornaments and picture frame glass. There were photographs among the assorted papers and other items; of her, of other relatives and of two men he took to be her other son and her late husband. But none of Marcus.
‘I burnt them all. You’ve had a wasted journey.’
Wilde had never met someone as intransigent as this woman. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose I have.’
‘I’ll show you out.’
At the front door, her face was a cold, hostile mask. And yet he turned to her and smiled as he was putting his boots back on. ‘Whatever differences you have between you, whatever he has done here, there is also the matter of an innocent child – your grandson. His name is Walter. If you like, I could pass on some message to him and his mother for you. It’s not that far from Ipswich to Cambridge, you know.’
She shook her head, but he wondered if she seemed less decisive.
Despite the woman’s coldness, he couldn’t help but pity her. Was she all alone in the world? ‘This is a very difficult time for you, Mrs Marfield. Do you have any help? Your elder son, Ptolemy, isn’t far away, is he?’
‘Toll? What is he to do with all this?’
What indeed? Wilde wondered. Her sharp reaction to her firstborn’s name posed yet more questions in his mind. Precisely what role did Ptolemy Marfield play in this tragic family? He was certainly involved – his reaction on the phone proved that.
She was pushing at the door. ‘I do not care to discuss personal matters with you or anyone else, Mr Wilde.’
‘Please, one more thing, are you sure it was Marcus who broke into the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Because he rang me and asked for something. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. So quite clearly he came to look for it himself.’
‘What did he ask for?’
‘I don’t care to discuss it. And that’s my final word. I told him he had driven his father to his grave and I wanted nothing more to do with him. I said that from now on if he wanted anything perhaps he should look to you, Professor. You’ve taken h
im under your wing, haven’t you? Good luck is all I can say.’
CHAPTER 27
The fog had barely lifted all day. Soon it would be dark again and hope was slipping fast. They had enough food but there was little water left. Juliet Vanderberg held William in her arms and tried to soothe him. He was seven years old, big for his age, a healthy all-American boy. But here, in this small boat in these vast, grey seas, he was in a bad way.
‘Ma, I’m thirsty.’
‘I know, honey.’ She put the flask to his lips. ‘Take small sips, baby, we’ve got to make it last a while longer.’ She felt his forehead: he seemed feverish.
‘Are we going home?’
‘Soon. Very soon.’
Juliet had always thought of herself as a stoical practical woman, but here in the fog-shrouded Atlantic, somewhere west or north of Ireland, she felt utterly helpless. To think that she had embarked on this voyage to protect William and Henry from the bombs that were expected to fall on London. She had had no fear for herself and no wish to be separated from Jim, but she had a strong instinct that she must put her children first. Now William was hot and shivering and she had no idea what had become of his brother. The bitter irony was not lost on her; in the very act of trying to protect her children she had put them in danger.
Even now she could feel the tremendous shudder and explosion as the torpedo hit. She and Willie had just emerged from their cabin on D Deck on their way to one of the dining rooms on C Deck when they were thrown from their feet and ricocheted off the bulwark. They had not been injured but were left shocked and dazed. They carried on, unsure what had happened, but one of the sailors told her they had been hit by a torpedo or shell and that she must return to her cabin to collect their lifejackets, then go to the assembly point on deck until the extent of the damage could be ascertained.
She understood that they needed their lifejackets, but her immediate concern was for Henry. Where had he got to?
At first everything was orderly. But then, as they hurried through the gangways, came the black smoke, the stench of oil, the flames and the terror as she called and called for Henry. Nor had she seen Mrs Ballantyne, the woman whose cabin she was sharing, or her maid, Emmy. She had to pray the three of them had found their way to a lifeboat.
In the end, in the dark, she had made her way to the muster deck and had taken Willie in her arms and climbed down to the lifeboats. But as the lifeboat was lowered one of the davit ropes snapped or got tangled and the lifeboat turned turtle as it fell into the dark sea. She remembered nothing then, except that somehow she had ended up in this rowing dinghy with Willie and another woman, drifting. Juliet had scrabbled about for oars, but there were none; no way of steering or making headway. They had called out, but a lot of people were calling out, and in the darkness and the chaos they had drifted away.
Their fellow passenger was an elderly woman named Joyce Harman, from upstate New York. She had brought a hamper full of food and two flasks of water. ‘Well, dear,’ she said. ‘I had bought the hamper from Fortnum’s for my niece in Manhattan and it occurred to me that my need might now be greater than hers. The water was almost an afterthought.’
Juliet Vanderberg had been grateful for the woman’s foresight, but some of the food was a little rich for Willie. He spat out the tinned fois gras and now the water was almost gone. Soon they would have to turn to one of the alcoholic beverages from the hamper. The port maybe. Willie might like its sweetness. Any port in a storm, Joyce had said, and Juliet had laughed, but Joyce was wearing thin. Her constant refrain of ‘If only this fog would lift’ did not help one bit.
But it was true. The fog that kept coming and going was a curse. There were no flares, no oars, no compass and no radio. No supplies save the Fortnum’s hamper. It was impossible to tell if they were drifting back towards land or further out to sea. And who would ever see them in this infernal fog, or at night? At the moment it seemed they were more likely to be mown down by a passing ship than rescued by it.
Gently, Juliet laid William aside, so she could get back to work. She picked up the two tin cups that were all she had, and resumed the task of bailing water from the bottom of the boat. The leak was slow, but she was slower.
*
It was almost dusk when Wilde arrived back in Cambridge. He wanted to see Lydia and he needed to report to Philip Eaton, but first he wanted to explore another option. Surely Claire would have a picture of her husband? And if Claire was away, what harm could it do to have a quick look around her house. Breaking and entering was becoming a habit.
The light was fading as he arrived in Histon. He took a flashlight from his saddlebag and approached the back of the property. The garden door was unlocked; Claire really had left in a hurry, just as Lydia had said. Not even enough time to bolt a door. Once inside, he went from room to room, downstairs and upstairs, drawing the blackout curtains before switching on his torch.
He found what he was looking for in the sitting room: a picture of Marfield taken by a commercial photographer, well lit, handsome and kitted out in a smart jacket and tie. Wilde slid it from its silver frame and slipped it into his pocket.
Just as he was about to leave, he paused, turned back and went up the stairs. There had been something he had seen in Claire’s bedroom that he wanted to look at more closely. A Kodascope 8mm film projector, with a spool of film attached, on a bedside table that had been moved to the middle of the room.
In the beam of his torch Wilde saw that the film was on the receiving spool as though it had just been played, and that the projector was still plugged into the mains socket. It had been wedged on a slim book to adjust the height. It was facing a white wall, in lieu of a screen.
Wilde was familiar with projectors like this from his lectures. Putting down the torch so that its wide beam threw light on his work, he slotted the end of the film from the full bottom spool into the top reel and flicked the rewind switch. It ran smoothly. When the top reel was full, he switched off the machine.
Now he threaded the film through the cogs so that the teeth locked into the sprockets on the edge of the film, then he fed it down in front of the projector’s lamp, secured it in place and clicked film sprockets into the lower teeth, mirroring those on top. Finally he slipped the end of the film into the empty reel and wound it tight. It was ready to roll.
The picture on the wall was slow and blurred, but he quickly adjusted it to an even speed and brought it into focus. The image was small, but good quality and sharp, if a little jerky: filmed using a handheld camera, not a tripod.
In the opening frames, all he could see was clouds. Then a plane appeared, a speck in the distance, which fell into a dive: a German Stuka bomber. The only sound was the clatter of the projector, which was a little ancient and had seen better days, but he knew that the Stuka – Junkers 87 – would have been emitting a high-pitched scream as it went into its dive, terrifying those below.
The plane was so far away and the image so small that it was not easy to see what happened next, but it was easy to deduce that it had dropped its bomb, pulled out of the dive and crawled into its ascent. The film shuddered and a plume of smoke filled the central section of the image.
The camera panned back to reveal Marcus Marfield in the foreground, sitting alone on a broad, smooth rock. He had a beret on his head and a scarf around his neck and was laughing. In his left hand he had a burning cigarette, in his right a long-barreled pistol. His index finger was inside the trigger guard and he twirled the weapon like a cowboy, before he held it up and pointed at whoever was behind the camera. His mouth opened and closed as though he had said ‘bang’.
Behind Marfield the landscape was barren and dusty. The camera slowly panned left and a low white building came into view. Six figures were ranged alongside it, with their backs against the wall. Two were young men in working men’s clothes, one was an older man in peasant garb. Beside him, a woman of a similar age. His wife? And then, at the end of the line, was a young woman holding a baby
.
Wilde watched with growing foreboding. The reel was nearly a quarter the way through and he had been watching for half a minute. Marfield was still in camera shot and was now pointing the gun at the people outside the farmhouse, no more than thirty feet from him. He drew on his cigarette, squinted down the gunsight on the pistol and pulled the trigger. The old woman’s mouth fell open; her hands went to her belly. Even in monochrome, even in this small format, Wilde could see blood seeping through her fingers as her knees wobbled and she fell forward on to the hard, unforgiving ground.
Marfield smiled, rose from his rock, dropped the cigarette and strolled over. The camera followed him and as it came closer to the wall, Wilde saw that the three men’s hands were all bound in front of them. In quick succession, Marfield shot each one of them in the head.
He then turned his attention to the young mother clutching her child. She was shaking, saying something, pleading.
Please God, no, thought Wilde.
Marfield stood in front of her. The camera had moved around now so that their faces were in profile. The woman was dark and small and looked familiar. Her child was no more than three months old. Marfield reached out and touched the woman’s face, then stroked the baby’s head. She held the child out, as if beseeching him not to harm it.
Smiling, Marfield took the baby and squatted down to put it gently on the ground. He stood up and pointed the gun at the woman’s head. She closed her eyes, bracing her muscles for the shock of the bullet and death. Instead he tapped her face with the hot black barrel so that she opened her eyes again.
His gun hand dropped and, with barely a glance, he shot the baby through the top of the head.
The woman’s neck arched back and her mouth flew open in an anguished, silent scream.
Marfield thrust the gun barrel into her gaping mouth and pulled the trigger again.
As the woman fell, he stood back. With the side of his dusty boot, he kicked the baby away, turned with a look of exultation, something close to rapture, and the camera panned again to reveal three more men.
Nemesis Page 19
