Nemesis

by Rory Clements

  ‘I’ve been fine. Edie and Rupert have been fussing over me. Haven’t let me lift a finger.’

  Rupert Weir strolled in with his doctor’s bag. He had dispensed with his tweed jacket, but still wore his waistcoat, complete with fob chain. He afforded them a broad smile. ‘Now then, Tom, let’s have a look at you.’

  Weir gave him a cursory once-over and proclaimed him reasonably fit. ‘A few cuts and bruises. Actually, you look as though you’ve been dragged through brambles, then dunked in a quagmire, Tom. Nothing a bath and a new set of clothes won’t put right. Unfortunately mine are rather too large for you. But for your general health I prescribe a couple of drams, then sleep, followed by bacon and eggs in the morning.’ He was pouring Wilde a glass even as he spoke.

  Wilde downed the whisky in one and gasped.

  ‘You’re very welcome to stay here.’

  Wilde looked at Lydia. She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘I think we’d rather get home if it’s all the same to you, Rupert.’

  They made their way back to Lydia’s house and Wilde climbed upstairs to her room and lay down on the bed. Downstairs, Eaton was checking his gun, making calls to London and elsewhere. He told them the Cambridge police would be opening up the firearms case and sending a couple of officers over with revolvers as added protection. One would take the front of the house, one the back, and they would remain outside.

  Lydia came over and lay down beside him. ‘You’ve scarcely slept in the past thirty hours, Tom.’

  ‘I’ve seen terrible things.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ She could see it in his eyes, dark-shadowed and haunted. ‘It’s unbearable for you.’

  ‘I have always understood these things happen . . . but seeing it in front of me. The sheer pity of that poor elderly couple. The inhumanity. Blood never ran so cold as through the veins of Marcus Marfield. We brought a monster home, Lydia.’

  She held him in her arms, certain that he was about to weep. But he didn’t. Instead, his arms curled around her back and he held her so tightly that they were almost one, and his hard belly pushed into her soft abdomen. ‘You have to dance with me, Lydia. I want to dance, and I want music.’

  Lydia got up, and went over to the wireless set she kept on the chest of drawers. She turned the dial until she found some nameless piece of classical music that came and went as the waves strengthened and weakened. She went back to the bed. ‘I have a better idea,’ she said. ‘Horizontal dancing.’ She kissed his lips.

  ‘You haven’t slept either, have you?’

  She shook her head, and joined him on the bed. They were both fully clothed, but they pulled the bedclothes over themselves, kissed like new lovers and fell into sleep.

  *

  Martin Cullanan found her a few minutes before midnight. He had been walking most of the day over these familiar rocks, these stretches of sand and water and sheep grass. He had called in home at suppertime, but he had scarcely picked at his food. Catherine understood that he had to get back to his search and even though it was hopeless, she wasn’t going to tell him so. When Martin Cullanan set his mind to something, he didn’t take kindly to being told he was wrong.

  He hadn’t been wrong.

  She was on the shoreline, not more than a hundred yards east of the rocks where they had discovered the dinghy and the body of the old lady. The rocks here were sharper, higher and more difficult to walk across.

  ‘Ah, Jesus,’ Cullanan said out loud. ‘Ah, Jesus, look at you, you poor woman.’

  He shone the torch on her eyes; there was no response.

  He knelt down beside her, brushed soaking strands of hair from her forehead and put the back of his hand to her brow. The skin was cold and discoloured. Cold, but not deathly cold. Dear God, there was some trace of human warmth there.

  ‘Mrs Vanderberg?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Mrs Vanderberg, can you hear me?’

  She couldn’t hear him, but he could hear her faint shallow breathing now. Her upper body was out of the water, trapped by the rocks, so she was in no danger of drowning. In truth the rocks that had concealed her from the searchers had saved her life, for they had prevented her being dragged out to her death with the ebb-tide.

  But she was wedged in, her body twisted and almost certainly injured.

  ‘Mrs Vanderberg,’ he said, close to her ear. ‘Your little boy is safe. Both your sons are safe, for we have heard now from the mainland.’

  There was a flicker of her eyes. Cullanan made the sign of the cross over her. Dear God, he thought, bring this woman through and I’ll never doubt you again.

  CHAPTER 35

  Wilde woke. From the very edge of the blackout he could see a hint of light: dawn. He must have slept for five or six hours. Not enough in the circumstances, but he had things to do. Had to crank up his brain and try to make sense of all that had befallen him. Beside him, Lydia nestled into her pillows, her breathing soft and peaceful.

  Silently, he got out of bed and went downstairs. Eaton was there in the sitting room, dozing on the sofa.

  Wilde shook Eaton by his right shoulder. They had to talk, work out what Marcus Marfield was planning. Wilde wanted shot of this whole affair, but first there were matters and details that needed to be attended to. Things he had been too tired to address last night.

  Eaton woke with a start. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Sunrise.’

  Fifteen minutes later, with the curtains drawn back and light streaming in, they were sitting at the kitchen table with cups of strong black coffee.

  ‘I just didn’t see it,’ Eaton said. He still seemed shell-shocked. ‘For the life of me, I never suspected Guy.’

  ‘He must have worked hard to conceal his true loyalties.’

  ‘You understand this secrets game, Wilde. You’ve studied Walsingham. When someone goes undercover, they must adopt a convincing persona. So when Guy Rowlands was involved with the Right Club and with the British Union of Fascists, it was so he could investigate their connections in Italy, Spain and Germany. Or so I believed. It didn’t occur to me or anyone else that he might actually be one of them. Why would it? He was playing a double bluff. Some of the people we deal with and use, you never know whose side they’re really on.’

  Wilde had never been at all sure whose side Eaton himself was on. But this was no time for such questions. They were certainly on the same side in this affair.

  ‘It’s no longer any of my business,’ Wilde said. ‘But what are you going to do now?’

  ‘No longer your business? Wilde, please, you have to help me on this.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ll let you know everything I can, but I’m a Cambridge University history don and I’m not even British. This is your war; these crimes are yours to deal with. You, MI6, MI5, the Special Branch, the army, the police, the air-raid wardens and the man in the street for all I care. My concern now is Lydia and our unborn child.’

  ‘I understand that, Wilde, and of course you’re right. But—’

  ‘There are no buts in this.’

  ‘But I need to talk to you. Did you not pick up some clue? Was there nothing in anything that was said while you were with Marfield and Rowlands that gave you an inkling of what they are up to? You must have learnt something – even if you didn’t realise it at the time.’

  Wilde thought back. Rowlands and Marcus Marfield had been very careful not to give away anything specific, even though they had no intention of keeping him alive. The big question was why they were prepared to go to such lengths to prevent the world knowing Marcus Marfield’s true politics. And why had he not simply stayed in Madrid, or travelled to Berlin? He would surely have been made very welcome in Germany.

  Obviously, he had a mission here in England. Wilde groaned and slumped down on a kitchen chair. This was all going in circles. Two people knew what was planned – Marcus and Elina – and no one knew where either of them was. Were there others? And if so, who?

  ‘I understand
why you are trying to keep the press muted, Eaton. But really, wouldn’t it now be sensible to make something of a story out of it? You’ve got Marfield’s photograph. That way we might get some sightings. What about the silver BMW? That’s pretty distinctive.’

  ‘No sign of it. Dumped in a barn or garage, probably. Maybe even ditched in a lake or deep river.’

  ‘Then we need publicity to track them down. You were certainly thinking that way before – which is why you wanted the photograph.’

  Eaton shook his head decisively. ‘The death of Guy Rowlands changes things. I don’t want to give Marfield any information about what happened after his disappearance. And we have to tread lightly. There’s too much fear in the air. People see Nazi spies everywhere. There was even an appalling case of poisoned milk down in Hertfordshire and the press are pestering Scotland Yard to say German agents are involved. It’s not healthy. Keep calm and carry on is the order of the day.’

  ‘Poisoned milk?’

  Eaton brushed the story aside with an expansive wave of his arm. ‘Probably some domestic thing involving inheritance powder – arsenic. Anyway, I only mention it to illustrate what we’re up against.’

  The phone rang. Wilde excused himself and went to the hall.

  ‘Hello? Tom Wilde here.’

  ‘Tom, it’s Jim. They’ve found William.’

  ‘Jim, that’s wonderful news. Is he OK? What about Juliet?’

  ‘They’re still looking for her, but William’s safe. Washed up in a dinghy on a small inhabited island off Donegal. She was definitely with him – but no sign as yet. I’ve just flown in, making my way to the coast to get across to the island.’

  ‘Jim?’

  ‘I’ll call as soon as I know anything.’

  *

  Elina Kossoff had barely slept all night at Wall Hall. There was a nagging doubt in her mind. Marcus had said Wilde was dead, but he had not witnessed it. There was no proof; nothing on the wireless.

  And still no sign of the second film.

  The key must lie in Cambridge. The authorities were keeping radio silence, but if Wilde was dead, there had to be those who knew. She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. She could hear the sound of the staff busy making preparations for tonight’s banquet. Dressing quickly, she went to the small office that had been allocated to her, a bundle of clothes in her arms. Shutting the door after her, she turned the key in the lock. First she called Wilde’s college, where the phone was answered by one of the porters.

  ‘Is Professor Wilde there?’

  ‘Not yet, madam. Bit early in the day for him, to tell the truth. Shall I leave a message in his pigeon hole?’

  ‘When are you expecting him?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. If he’s coming in, it’s not likely to be before 10 a.m. But he might not turn up at all. Michaelmas term hasn’t started and the whole place is in a bit of turmoil. If he comes he’ll probably only be roped into air-raid drill by one of the wardens.’

  ‘Was the professor in yesterday afternoon or evening?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll just ask around.’ A few seconds later he came back on the line. ‘No, no one has seen him for a day or two.’

  ‘Do you have his phone number?’

  ‘Are you a friend?’

  ‘A very old friend, but I’ve been away and we lost touch.’ Her most soothing voice.

  It was enough for the porter. ‘One mo. I think I can find that for you. Don’t let on I told you though, madam. Not supposed to give out personal information.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  She dialled Wilde’s home number. The phone just rang. No answer. So he hadn’t been at college and he wasn’t at home. This was promising, but it still wasn’t proof. And as for the second film, if Wilde had it, he must have had the stomach of an ox not to give away its whereabouts under the duress inflicted by Marcus.

  But wasn’t that cause for doubt in itself? From the little she knew of Tom Wilde, he seemed like the kind of man who would have sacrificed himself to save others. Marcus had been clear on the point; Wilde had revealed nothing, even when the old man and woman were threatened. Why not?

  Because he didn’t know where the film was. That had to be the answer. He had seen the film – in Claire Marfield’s bedroom – but he didn’t know the whereabouts of the other copy.

  That had to mean that Marcus’s mother had lied in telling her son she had seen the professor’s name and address on the package. Sons tended to trust their mothers a little too readily. But why would she lie? To protect herself, of course. Or someone else.

  Elina picked up the phone again to call Mrs Marfield, but thought better of it. Marcus’s mother didn’t sound like the sort of woman who would even listen to a phone call from a stranger, let alone give out any information. She would have to go and introduce herself.

  First, though, the weapons needed to be put into place. A 1928 A1 Thompson sub-machine gun, a Smith and Wesson pistol and two hundred rounds of ammunition, all hidden in one of the lower drawers of her large desk. She unhooked the key on the chain around her neck, then unlocked the drawer. Elina pulled out the pile of household accounts she had bundled in there and gazed down on the boxes of bullets, the pistol and the constituent parts of the disassembled Tommy gun – a bundle of recoil springs, firing pin, bolt, hammer, muzzle, stock and two thirty-round stick magazines, all oiled and wrapped in soft cotton cloth. Beautiful devices; dull, black, deadly. Marfield was skilled in both of them. The Spanish war had taught him well.

  She removed the weapons from the drawer, wrapped them in the clothes she had brought with her, and packed them snugly into her large leather valise. ‘A good touch to use American armaments,’ Guy Rowlands had said when he told her how to find them at at the farmhouse. ‘It will add a frisson of horror and anger to the average guy in Iowa or Arkansas. And they are the ones we’re aiming at.’

  *

  There was something Wilde needed to tell Eaton. Something he was beginning to understand, something from the house of death.

  ‘It’s about America, Eaton. I’m not quite sure . . .’ An idea was hovering at the very edge of Wilde’s consciousness. ‘Look – it was almost as if Rowlands wanted to crow about what they were doing. He was adamant that America would not enter the war or help Britain and France in any way. Then he spoke of doing a deal with Germany and together forming a European fighting force to take on the Soviet Union. Am I gibbering?’

  ‘No, keep going.’

  ‘There was more. It seems Marcus has some visceral loathing for Americans, though he didn’t explain why. Something from Spain perhaps. Oh God, Eaton, I’m still tired and confused. Last night my dreams were ghastly, but I’m pretty sure I remember Rowlands talking about Roosevelt . . . But then the slaughter began and my thoughts turned to mush.’

  ‘Was Rowlands just saying what he thought might happen?’ Eaton spoke carefully. ‘Or do you think it was more than that?’

  ‘That’s it, you see. It seemed to me that he was convinced he had the power to shift America’s position, perhaps bolster the non-interventionists.’

  ‘Well, they’re on the back foot after the Athenia,’ said Eaton. ‘Goebbels is chasing his tail trying to blame it on Britain, but I doubt many in America believe him. Germany has made itself the enemy of civilised behaviour.’

  ‘Is there anything they could do to change opinion?’

  ‘I suppose if they could prove that the British really were behind the sinking of the Athenia and the loss of American lives, that would make it impossible for Roosevelt to intervene or supply us with the weapons and ships we need. Or if we bombed Germany and killed a lot of Yankee tourists – that wouldn’t play well, either.’

  ‘I feel we’re close to something . . . But what do we do?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to do anything, Wilde. I thought this was nothing to do with you.’

  Wilde chuckled. ‘You know me too well, Eaton. I can’t leave you in the lurc
h, can I?’

  ‘You could, if you wanted. It’s my job, after all.’

  Wilde’s tangled brain took another leap. ‘You told me about the man, Honoré. The “closing of the circle”, I think you said. If the American embassy in France was targeted, why not the American embassy here, too?’

  ‘Or indeed the American ambassador to London himself?’ Eaton suggested.

  ‘But why would he do that? Honoré is an agent of the Comintern and it looks as though Marcus is a sworn enemy of Communism. So why would he be taking instruction from a Communist like Honoré?’

  ‘Maybe Honoré isn’t really a communist. But forget about that for a moment . . .’ Eaton seemed to be following a particular train of thought. ‘Perhaps the assassins’ politics don’t matter. What their masters are looking for is a Frenchman to kill the US ambassador in Paris and an Englishman to kill the US ambassador in London. Now that really would turn American opinion against the Allies.’

  Wilde nodded. ‘But – and it’s a very big but – if America thought for a moment that the killer was a Nazi and that orders came from Berlin, then the US would come down with all its might against Germany. That’s why the film revealing Marfield as a Nazi has to be destroyed.’

  Eaton put down his coffee cup, shifted in his seat, and rubbed the stump of his left arm. ‘My God, we’re on to something . . . Do we think this attack is imminent, Wilde?’

  ‘We have to assume it is.’

  ‘The attempt on Bill Bullitt happened while he was taking his regular morning walk in Chantilly. Kennedy likes a morning ride in Hyde Park. This is well known. He would be an easy target.’

  ‘We need to find Kennedy and warn him.’

  Out in the hall Eaton was about to pick up the phone when it started ringing. The two men looked at each other.

  Wilde picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Lydia Morris’s residence.’

  A distant voice crackled through. ‘Tom, it’s Jim again.’

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘Good day, Mrs Marfield. I’m Eleanor Ruskin, an old friend of your son, Marcus.’ Elina held out her hand.