Nemesis

by Rory Clements

  ‘Well, it amounts to the same thing.’ The effort of talking, even in a rasping whisper, was too much for Dill and he began coughing. Horace was holding a white handkerchief to his mouth and it had become red with coughed-up blood.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Water?’

  Dill nodded and allowed Wilde to hold a glass to his lips. When the coughing had eased, Wilde sat at his side and took his hand. ‘Better?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, you know. The claret.’ Their wager was recorded in the combination room bets book. A bottle of claret was the prize, and Wilde had won it by staking the bet that the war would start before November.

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention it.’

  ‘The butler has it – a case of Pauillac de Latour. I forget the year but I’m told it’s good. To be drunk at my wake with the other Fellows, so you won’t have to wait long.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Horace.’

  Dill shook his head. ‘I’m slipping away, Tom. I’ve nothing to live for now . . . not since fucking Molotov and Stalin did their deal with the devil. They killed our dreams.’

  Wilde squeezed his friend’s hand. ‘It won’t last,’ he said. Even Guy Rowlands had realised that Hitler’s true enemy was in the East. What a pathetic creature Rowlands had been with his fantasy of a fascist confederacy of Germany, France and Britain bulldozing the Soviet Union out of existence.

  ‘No,’ Dill agreed. ‘Of course it won’t last. But the damage is already done. I’m not the only one to have burnt my party card.’

  Wilde spent a few more minutes with Horace, then took his leave, promising to call the next day. As he climbed the staircase to his own rooms, he could hear the phone was ringing. Scobie in the porter’s lodge was on the line. ‘Call for you, Professor. Mrs Marfield.’

  ‘Put her through, scobie.’

  ‘Good evening, Professor.’ It was the elder Mrs Marfield. She was speaking extremely quietly.

  ‘Mrs Marfield, I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Claire is upstairs putting Walter to bed. I would like a private word with you. She’s going out tomorrow morning at nine, leaving me to look after the boy. Would you mind coming by?’

  CHAPTER 40

  As he rode to Histon just before 9 a.m., Wilde reflected on the wisdom of agreeing to this meeting. He had started to have doubts about it the previous evening.

  ‘What are you worried about?’ asked Lydia. They were having a supper of battered cod and peas in newspaper, from the chip shop.

  ‘I’m worried about whose side she’s on. Marcus is still out there somewhere. He’s the sort of man to hold a grudge, and act on it.’

  ‘I thought Mrs Marfield despised her son,’ Lydia said, dowsing her chips with malt vinegar.

  ‘Perhaps.’ But he was far from sure.

  So now here he was, knocking at the door to Claire’s house in Histon again. Mrs Marfield opened the door immediately. She had been waiting for him.

  ‘Mr Wilde, thank you so much for coming. Won’t you come in?’

  Wilde entered. He couldn’t avoid a quick glance to the hallway doors and up the curving staircase.

  ‘Don’t worry, the only people here are you, me and Walter.’

  He could smell the coffee. That, too, had been waiting for him. They went to the kitchen and she poured him a cup; none for herself.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why I asked you here, Professor. I imagine, too, that you are more than a little surprised that I have been trying to make amends with Claire.’

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  She bowed her head. ‘I want to apologise to you. I put your life in danger. When Marcus saw the projector in my husband’s study, I told him I knew nothing about it. If there had been a film, I said, I certainly hadn’t watched it, and I didn’t want to know what was in it. But he became insistent in the way only he can, and so I told him Ronald had sent a parcel. He demanded to know to whom it had been sent and I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’m sorry, Professor Wilde, your name was the first that came to mind.’

  ‘To whom was it sent to then?’

  She held up the percolator to pour him more coffee. He shook his head and waited.

  Margaret Marfield sighed. ‘My husband sent the parcel to our other son, Ptolemy.’

  ‘So you were sacrificing me to protect your other son? You thought Marcus would harm him?’

  That would explain Eaton’s suggestion that Elina Kossoff might have gone looking for Ptolemy Marfield. It also explained why Ptolemy had warned Wilde to run as far as he could from Marcus. Clearly, Ptolemy had seen the film.

  She nodded slowly and bent her head again. ‘I have always been scared of Marcus,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Most people saw him as this angelic creature with a God-given voice; my husband certainly did.’ She looked up and her tone hardened. ‘I should have smothered him at birth – just as Klara Hitler should have done with her son.’

  These were terrible words for any mother to say. ‘Did something happen when Marcus was a child?’ Wilde kept his voice neutral.

  ‘Well, I didn’t catch him torturing mice or birds, if that’s what you mean. But I just knew – even before he went to King’s as a chorister – and my fears were confirmed by the complaints of bullying at his public school. Ronald wouldn’t see it; but I knew it was serious. It’s his nature. His soul is as cold as the inner circle of hell.’

  ‘But your husband became disillusioned – was that simply because of Claire and her pregnancy?’

  ‘Good Lord no, Ronald didn’t care a jot about him getting a girl pregnant. It was the politics that did for him. That bloody choir trip to Germany, and then the holiday with his Hitler Youth chum the following year. Ronald’s world collapsed when Marcus declared himself a Nazi. Their arguments almost came to blows, though I have no idea why my husband was surprised, because I certainly wasn’t. Marcus was born a Nazi.’

  ‘And your old friend Guy Rowlands?’

  ‘Well, of course, Ronald told him everything. He was the first person he’d confide in at a time like that. Guy laughed it off – said it was a passing phase; not to worry.’

  It all made sense now. In Ronald Marfield’s eyes, his angelic son had fallen from his pedestal by espousing the politics of the devil. The film from Spain was the last straw. To Guy Rowlands, however, Marcus’s obsession with National Socialism was merely an opportunity to be seized.

  ‘So where is Marcus now – and where is the film?’

  ‘Toll came home with the film when he learnt Marcus was wanted for three murders. He had watched the film by then and was absolutely horrified. He teaches at a school in Essex, you know, and it seems some woman had traced him there. I’m sure it was the same woman who came to my house. I mentioned her to Mr Eaton.’

  ‘What was the woman’s name?’

  ‘She called herself Ruskin . . . She didn’t find Toll because he was away for a few days – thank God. When Toll came home he insisted I stop hiding my head in the sand – his words – and watch the film with him. I couldn’t bear it, but in the end Toll and I watched it together. It was obscene, and it confirmed my worst fears.’

  ‘And where is the film now?’

  ‘We destroyed it. Toll and I took great care to ensure no trace of it will ever be found.’

  ‘And Marcus? He’s contacted you, hasn’t he?’

  A slight pause. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard a word from him. Nor do I ever want to. But I am still worried. I am worried for Claire and Walter – and I am worried for you. He tried to kill you once. The thing is, Professor, he won’t give up.’

  Did he really trust this woman? Either Marfield had fled abroad or somebody was now protecting him – and who more likely than his own mother? And this sudden change in Margaret Marfield’s persona, her apology to Wilde and interest in Claire and the grandchild, seemed out of character. What was she concealing?

  Wilde pushed away his coffee. He had had enough of this.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said
. ‘Thank you for the coffee – and the apology.’

  Together they walked to the door. As he turned to shake her hand, she smiled at him.

  ‘When I said that I wish I had smothered Marcus as a child, what did you think, Mr Wilde? If it were possible to see into the future and know with certainty that you had given birth to a monster, should one act? What would you do?’

  *

  Lydia was in the centre of Cambridge. She had spent the first part of the morning at her first floor room in Bene’t Street where she had been trying to work out how to get her poetry publishing business out of the doldrums. She had to face the fact that in the short term, there was no chance of her studying medicine, so it was back to this.

  In the past, she had published a volume of poetry from the Great War and it had enjoyed some success. Was it possible there might be poetry from this new war? It was a macabre thought – and she felt a little like a vulture hovering over a wounded animal. She shuddered. The memory of the tragic fate of so many war poets, a mere twenty years ago, was too fresh in the mind.

  Now she was out shopping, looking in the sparse windows on King’s Parade opposite the Senate House. Jim and Juliet were driving up with the boys later today to stay the weekend and she needed to get some food in. Doris would help with the cooking, which was something, but Lydia still felt inadequate to the task of catering for a whole family for two days and two nights. What did children eat? Good God, what sort of mother was she going to make? She groaned at the thought. Well, she still had a few months to find out these things.

  Here on the shopping streets and in the market, everything seemed so normal – if only you could ignore the sandbags around the buildings, and the gas masks. No gas bombs had fallen on the cities yet. No Nazi boots had marched along England’s country roads. Was it possible the whole thing could be settled by negotiation?

  Just then she saw a face she recognised, and for a moment struggled to place it. A slender woman of thirty or so, rather dowdily dressed, her face cast down, handbag clutched at her side in thin fingers, gas mask box slung across her shoulder: Priscilla Hollick, Dr Charlecote’s secretary.

  ‘Miss Hollick!’ she called.

  The woman hurried on past her. Lydia hastened to catch up and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned as though bitten.

  ‘Miss Hollick. I’m sorry, did I startle you?’

  ‘Hello, Miss Morris.’ The voice was flat, no semblance of warmth.

  ‘How are you? Haven’t seen you since . . . well, since you assisted me with Dr Charlecote’s notes.’ Lydia glanced at her watch. ‘Would you like a quick cup of tea? Dorothy’s perhaps?’

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Another time then?’

  ‘Yes, another time.’

  Lydia watched as Miss Hollick set off at a brisk pace, never turning back. What a strange encounter, she thought. No smile, no social niceties. She looked back to their last meeting. She had thought they had got on well enough.

  Oh well. She turned her mind back to the weekend shopping. Doris had complained that the shelves were being stripped. ‘Couldn’t get Persil or baked beans, Miss Morris, Weetabix all gone, too. Won’t be the Nazis as causes the shortages – it’ll be our own hoarders!’

  *

  The Vanderbergs arrived at Cornflowers – Lydia’s house – at six o’clock. Work at the embassy had eased after the first frantic days of the war and Jim had been given four days’ leave to relax with his newly reunited family. Joe Kennedy himself had thanked him for all the work he had done with Jack in Glasgow, and expressed his heartfelt sympathy for all that the Vanderbergs had been through.

  Cornflowers was the bigger of the two houses and so Wilde and Lydia had decided the family should stay there. Wilde was at the door to greet the arrivals.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, extending his arms in welcome. All geniality, but beneath the surface, he was on edge: the unheralded appearance of Marfield’s mother in Cambridge had unnerved him.

  ‘Let me look at you all,’ he said, standing back from them, hands on hips. ‘Mr and Mrs James Vanderberg and their two sons – the perfect all-American family. Safe at last.’

  Juliet was smiling, but he could see that she was in pain. ‘Nothing perfect about me, buster.’

  ‘You look perfect to me, Juliet. Anyway, you’re safe and among friends. We have fine wine and good food – the pick-me-up of the gods. We’ll play jazz records on the gramophone and feel like human beings again for a couple of days. Come on in.’

  *

  Over dinner, Henry and William regaled the company with tales of their adventures, and it was a good story, well told. Every now and then Juliet cut in to correct some small factual error. At the end of the meal, when the boys had left them to explore their bedroom, Lydia asked Juliet if she might talk to her alone in the sitting room. Wilde gave her an amused look.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘You think we’re going to talk about babies!’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  ‘Maybe a bit. I need to know these things. But there are other things, too. Politics. Literature. Art. All those things that go way above your head, Thomas Wilde.’

  Wilde and Vanderberg stayed at the dining table with a bottle of whisky, and talked of Lincoln Tripp.

  ‘Remind me, Jim, what exactly did you say to Tripp when you called him?’

  ‘I told him pretty much what you told me.’

  ‘Did you mention Marfield?’

  Vanderberg looked uncertain. ‘Tripp says the line was very bad, that he heard no mention of Marfield. Nor did he understand the severity of the warning. You know, Tom, I’m not sure exactly what I said. It was a pretty confusing day what with the news of Juliet and William, and yes, the line was not good. I did tell him that Joe Kennedy was in danger and that his bodyguard should be on high alert. I knew Kennedy himself wouldn’t want to be involved in dealing with a security scare; things like that happen – part of the job. I’m sure I told Tripp to call you for details. I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have mentioned Marfield, but – hell, Tom, I don’t know.’

  ‘How do you feel about Tripp now?’

  Jim took a sip of his whisky. ‘I have my doubts, you know that, which is why I want him dispatched home soonest. As does JPK. And I feel guilty for ever bringing him to you, but, well, he seemed like a good kid. Came with a recommendation from friends at the Moscow embassy. Funnily enough, Joe Kennedy told me he never liked Lincoln much and he never liked his father, but he helped his career out of respect for the boy’s mother. She’s the younger sister of an old friend from the Boston Latin School. Things like that matter to Kennedy.’

  ‘What now then, Jim – for you, I mean? Is Juliet still set on taking the boys home?’

  ‘We’re debating it, but I think they will go. As for me, I’ve got a tough one – Berlin.’

  ‘Are you serious? I thought Roosevelt had already withdrawn our ambassador.’

  ‘We have a chargé d’affaires there, Alexander Kirk. He needs assistance. The State Department has asked me if I’ll go. There’s no arm twisting. Entirely my choice.’

  ‘Don’t go. It’s too dangerous. Anyway, I need you here.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Wilde was jittery and couldn’t sleep. He was listening for door handles turning, for windows breaking. At 3 a.m., the phone rang and he slipped from the bed, leaving Lydia gently snoring, and tiptoed past the rooms where his American friends slept.

  ‘Professor Wilde?’

  ‘Yes, who’s that?’ His voice on the phone a whisper.

  ‘Osgood, sir, night porter.’

  Wilde did not recognise the voice. ‘I don’t think I know you, do I?’

  ‘New here, sir. Sorry to call at such an ungodly hour, but the doctor says Professor Dill is asking for you. Said you might be available on this number if you weren’t at home. Mr Dill’s very weak and they don’t think he’s going to last the night, sir.’
/>   Wilde dressed in a hurry without waking Lydia or the rest of the house, and wrote a note which he left on the kitchen table. He put on his jacket and goggles, and opened the front door. He gazed out into the moonlit street, left then right. Was this what they called paranoia? He made his way next door, where he removed the cover from the Rudge, kicked her into life and rode off slowly into the silent streets of Cambridge.

  The moon was almost full, so he didn’t use his headlights. Arriving at college, he introduced himself properly to the new night porter, a rough-hewn farmhand of a man who did not look at ease in a bowler hat and suit. He asked after Horace Dill.

  ‘Dr Weir is with him, sir, but he wouldn’t have a priest. Just you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He made his way through the shadowed confines of the college into the old court. For a few moments he stopped on the grass and looked up at the dark window of Horace Dill’s rooms. Was this really the end? So many arguments and so much laughter over the years; the place would never be the same without him.

  Horace Dill’s rooms were dimly lit and smelt sickly. Rupert Weir was sitting at his bedside.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Rupert.’

  ‘He asked for me. And he asked for you.’

  ‘Is he still with us?’

  ‘Slipping in and out. The occasional word seems to emerge from his mouth, but no whole sentence. I think he’s asking for his mother. Saw it all the time in the last war: dying boys crying out for their mothers. Heartbreaking.’

  Wilde nodded. He leant over and put his hand to Horace’s brow; it was cold and clammy, then turned to Weir. ‘How long, Rupert?’

  ‘Tonight sometime. Can’t be more specific, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Does he have any relatives nearby – someone we should call?’

  ‘The porters don’t know of anyone; nor do I. Should we wake the Master?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Look – why don’t you shoot off home?’ Wilde could see Weir was exhausted. ‘I’ll stay with him. You’ve done your bit, Rupert. There’s no more you can do, surely?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. This is my second night on a call and I didn’t get any sleep in the day.’ Weir stood up, put his hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a small pewter flask. He handed it to Wilde. ‘That should see you through to dawn. Islay single malt.’