*
While the hall was being cleared, Wilde cornered Dave Johnson. ‘You obviously knew Nancy well, Mr Johnson.’
‘I did. It’s hit me hard, Professor Wilde, just like Lydia. To tell the truth, I wasn’t really expecting her to turn up tonight.’
‘I take it you knew Nancy and Lydia through the Socialist Club.’
‘Nancy and I both believed in the cause, if that’s what you mean. Not Lydia. She’s not really committed, I don’t think.’
No, thought Wilde, there’s more to her than that. ‘Do you think Nancy was the type to take her own life?’
Johnson shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Must have been an accident. Too much dope, though God knows she knew what she was doing. Shouldn’t have made such a mistake.’
‘Did she have enemies?’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You mean apart from the whole British ruling class? They hate us and they fear us. They think we’re going to take their vast estates and wealth from them. And do you know what, Professor Wilde? They’re right.’
Wilde smiled. ‘Actually, I mean someone who might have wished her personal harm?’
Johnson pulled at his beard, massaging his jaw. Wilde’s eyes were drawn to the scars.
‘Flying Corps,’ Johnson said. ‘The plane was on fire. Somehow I landed it with flames licking at my face. Top of my face was saved by my goggles and cap. You can’t imagine the pain.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.’
‘Everybody does and so I tell them what happened. Makes it easier for them to look at me.’ There was a brief pause. Johnson collected himself. ‘But we were talking about Nancy. You’ve got my opinion. Accidental death. Tragic.’
*
Outside the hall, the police were breaking up a fight between a band of Blackshirts and a group waving the red flag. ‘Don’t worry,’ Wilde said when he emerged with Lydia. ‘They’re play-acting.’
To Lydia, it looked very much as if a full-scale riot was about to break out. She couldn’t stomach the thought of violence. ‘How do you tell the difference?’
Wilde pointed across to the front line of the Blackshirts. ‘Look at that one. He’s one of my undergraduates, a boy called Eugene Felsted. His father owns half the coalmines in Yorkshire and he went to Eton. It’s all a game to him.’ He jutted his chin in the direction of the communist banner-waver. ‘As for him, that working-class hero over there with the bloody nose is Roger Maxwell. I believe his people own one of the smaller African colonies – almost all the farmland, at least. You’ve probably drunk quite a lot of their coffee. With a bit of luck, they’ll beat each other to a pulp and leave me alone until the New Year.’
She wasn’t entirely comforted.
‘They try to act like men, Lydia, but they’re boys, nothing more. Here, watch.’
He strolled over to the Blackshirt lines. The leaders bristled at his approach, but he ignored them and spoke quietly to Felsted, who blushed and looked embarrassed. He then did the same to an ashen-faced Maxwell on the opposite line.
He was smiling when he returned to Lydia.
‘What did you say?’
‘I pointed out to them that they weren’t wearing gowns, and that I had just seen the proctor and two bulldogs. In the circumstances, I said, they might very well find themselves facing a penalty rather more severe than a thirteen and eightpence fine if they didn’t hurry back to college. Sharpish.’
‘They’re probably more scared of you than Stalin or Hitler.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Which only goes to show how little you know yourself, Tom.’
*
From Sidney Street, they turned right into Jesus Lane. There they encountered a choir of children and adults singing ‘Silent Night’, standing in the glow of a gas lamp, their voices clear and full of hope. They stopped and listened for a minute, then Lydia turned to Wilde. ‘You gave Comrade Kholtov a hard time.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’
‘Well, I liked him. I thought he was an inspiration. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow. You’re invited if you want.’
‘Aren’t you worried I might give him an even harder time?’
‘I suspect he can take care of himself. And who was that rather smooth man I saw you drinking with?’
‘Philip Eaton, Special Correspondent for The Times.’ Wilde hesitated.
‘You were about to say something?’
‘Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything this evening, but I suppose you’ll want to hear this: Eaton thinks there’s a story to be had in Nancy’s death.’
‘Well, perhaps he’s right.’
‘What really unsettled me, though, was that he seems to know all about me – and you, for that matter.’
‘What does he know about me?’ Lydia laid her hand on his arm, suddenly disturbed.
‘He knows that you went to Berlin with Nancy. And he seems to have some information that she was up to something there other than reporting. Doing something for the Comintern, would you believe.’
Lydia’s eyes were fixed on Wilde’s. ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Well, yes, I would believe it actually. What else did Mr Eaton say?’
‘Nothing much. To be honest, he reminded me uncomfortably of the very elegant sixth-former who smacked me hard around the head on the house stairs when I first arrived at Harrow, and then said, “That’s for being new. And foreign-looking.” Then he patted me on the back and said, “Get along now, old chap.” ’
‘He really hit you for being foreign-looking?’
‘And for being new. He died at the Somme in his second week at the front, but it’s still difficult to forgive him. The injustice rankles.’
What Wilde didn’t tell Lydia was that it was this incident that had encouraged him to take up boxing. His mother had hated the idea. She said it reminded her of her grandfather who would fight anyone in Galway after half a pint of whisky. ‘He was a pig of a man, Tom. You’re not like him. Don’t be like him. God gave you a fine brain, use it.’
He had. And at first, university life had indeed been good. He had met the woman who became his wife on campus; a college librarian who shared his love of English history. But after her death, the enclosed world of academe had lost its joy. Even the success of his book, even the move to Cambridge had done little to interest him. Now he wondered if the discipline of a local boxing gym might give him the stimulus he craved. He thought again of the ugly stand-off outside the church hall. Yes, it might be a good moment to take up boxing again.
Lydia was looking at him with a wry expression. ‘Don’t hit Mr Eaton for the crime of reminding you of someone else.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘Because if you can arrange it, I’d like to meet him.’
THURSDAY DECEMBER 3, 1936
CHAPTER 10
Wilde woke to a hammering at the front door. He opened it bleary-eyed, a bear disturbed in mid-hibernation. Whisky and a smoke-fogged room had taken their toll. It was Lydia, coated, booted and about to set off for town.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it must be morning.’
She eyed his dishevelled hair and dressing gown. ‘Tom, it’s nine o’clock.’ She thrust a newspaper in his hands. ‘I thought you might like to see this. Page fifteen.’
‘What is it?’
‘They’re finally writing about the King.’ She turned as if to go and then stopped. ‘This Comintern thing. You know we were talking about Nancy being good friends with Horace Dill? Well, the truth is she thought he was possessed with god-like wisdom.’
‘More divine than Dave Johnson?’
‘Oh God, yes. And did you know that Horace put Kholtov up in his college rooms last night?’
Wilde hadn’t known, but he knew that Dill had been a paid-up party member since 1920. He was very proud to have had one of the first British cards.
‘I must go. Will I see you at dinner? They’ll both be there – Kholtov and Dill. Please come. It’s all organised. I can’
t let them down.’
‘Then count me in.’
The front of The Times was the same as always, with its seven bland columns of births, marriages, deaths and personal advertising. Wilde shook his head and carried on through the paper until he reached page fifteen where he found an article headlined ‘King and Monarchy’.
He read it quickly and found himself little the wiser. No mention of Mrs Simpson, nor any suggestion that there was any pressure on the King to abdicate. The possibility of a constitutional crisis was as far as the piece went. The Times attacked the ‘vulgar’ American press for its campaign of ‘exaggeration and invention’. Only at the very end did the story contain any meat, concluding that a government statement was urgently needed and suggesting that the King’s ‘private inclination’ must never be allowed to come into open conflict with public duty. It was dry stuff, but it was a seismic shift for the British newspapers. The cat was out of the bag at last.
Wilde put down the paper. He was indifferent to the story. To an American used to changing heads of state as frequently as they bought new shoes, it seemed hopelessly trivial.
Instead, his thoughts turned to Horace Dill, a man he rather liked. Did his friendship with Nancy Hereward have a deeper significance?
There was more to Horace Dill than the crusty, curmudgeonly face he turned to the world: a great deal more – and much of it spoken only in hushed tones. Dill had a lurid reputation among the other fellows and undergraduates. And it was said that he had been among those socialists who profoundly influenced young John Cornford, the Trinity history undergraduate who had recently gone off to fight with the International Brigades in Spain, carrying a volume of Shakespeare and a pistol. Tales of Cornford’s daring actions and brilliant leadership were now the talk of the Cambridge Union and he had inspired others to follow him. According to one of Wilde’s students, Horace had a standing offer of funds to help with the fare of anyone else wishing to go.
*
After a breakfast consisting mostly of restorative coffee, the telephone rang.
‘Professor Wilde?’
‘Good morning, Mr Eaton.’
‘Glad I caught you in. There’s been a development and I rather think you might be interested.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Two deaths. Murders. Definitely murder this time. It’s just possible there might be a connection to the death of Nancy Hereward. I’m covering it for The Times. Do you mind if I pop over and see you?’
‘What sort of connection?’
‘Let’s talk when I see you.’
He had a lecture to deliver, but to hell with it. Let the clever young men do something else with their time. Buy Christmas presents. Get drunk. ‘OK, come over,’ he said.
‘I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.’
‘My address would probably be helpful.’
Laughter at the other end of the line. ‘You live next door to Lydia Morris.’
‘I must cease to be surprised. I’ll get the coffee on.’
‘Don’t bother. I’m taking you out for a drive.’
*
By daylight, Philip Eaton looked every bit as smooth as he had the previous evening. His hair was slicked back and his shoes were polished to a military shine.
‘Good car,’ Wilde said as he pulled open the passenger door and climbed in.
‘Austin Ten sports tourer. Decent enough.’
‘And where exactly are we going?’
‘It’s a village called Kilmington St Edmund, a few miles south of Cambridge. Have you heard of Cecil Langley?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Possibly.’
Langley? Yes, he did know that name. ‘It rings a bell. Does he have a daughter called Margot?’ She was one of the Girton triumvirate: Lydia, Nancy and Margot. Shortly before Nancy’s death she had received an unexpected telephone call from Margot, he recalled Lydia telling him. A strange and troubling connection indeed.
‘I’ve no idea about his family,’ Eaton said. ‘All I can tell you is that he was an MP and junior minister until the last election. Never made much of a name for himself, but there was a bit of a fuss when he quit the Conservatives and joined Oswald Mosley’s crew. Anyway, he and his wife have been murdered, it seems. I asked you along because he was very close to Norman Hereward. Very similar world view, both ran in the same circles – county set, that sort of thing. There are some curious elements to the story, so my newsdesk tells me. But I can’t imagine it’ll get much of a show – not with all this royal stuff beginning to come out. Have you seen the papers today?’
‘Only yours. Nothing I didn’t know. What are the curious elements in the murder?’
‘Come on, let’s get going.’ Eaton pulled away from the kerb. ‘It seems it might be a bit political,’ he said. ‘Haven’t got the details yet, but that’s what I’m told.’
*
Kilmington St Edmund was ten miles due south of Cambridge, along winding country roads and byways, mostly unsignposted. Wilde navigated with the assistance of an Ordnance Survey map, of which Eaton had a pile on the back seat, along with a selection of newspapers. While they waited for a flock of sheep to move out of their way, Wilde picked one of the papers up. The royal story was spread big across the front page: ‘The King and his Ministers’, ‘Constitutional Crisis’, ‘Cabinet Advice’. It was much harder hitting than The Times, yet still there was no mention of Mrs Simpson.
‘Do you care about any of this, Mr Eaton?’
‘The King? I care a great deal.’
The sheep were shuffled off the road into a field and Eaton drove on.
‘It’s not looking good for him,’ Wilde said.
‘No, it’s not.’
Two minutes later, Wilde saw the signpost to Kilmington St Edmund. ‘Almost there.’ The Austin rounded a bend and they spotted two police cars parked outside the entrance to a driveway.
‘No press in sight. With luck we’ll have it to ourselves for a while.’ Eaton pulled up behind the police vehicles and stopped. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s been happening.’
*
Kilmington stood on the banks of the Cam, not far from the headwaters. It was a timeless village with an ancient church, St Edmund’s. The house where the police cars were parked was half a mile outside the village on the north side of the settlement.
Eaton and Wilde introduced themselves to a uniformed constable at the wrought-iron gate to the driveway and he told them to wait. ‘I’ll get the detective superintendent.’
The house was set well back from the road and hidden from view until one was in the driveway. Square-built and tall, it was the sort of place a local lord of the manor would have owned: a comfortable home. There were good views in all directions over farmland and woods, with a river frontage a hundred yards to the side of the house.
Wilde’s attention turned to the front door, a hundred yards down the track, where another two cars were parked. The constable was emerging with an older man in plainclothes, a large shuffling figure who seemed in no hurry to make his way along the path.
‘Well, well,’ Eaton said in Wilde’s ear. ‘It’s my old chum Bower, up from the Yard.’
‘Good morning, Mr Eaton,’ the plainclothes officer said as he arrived at the gate. He was puffing from the exertion of his short walk.
‘Good morning, Superintendent Bower.’
The policeman turned to Wilde. ‘And who do we have here?’
‘Let me introduce Thomas Wilde, a Cambridge University history professor,’ Eaton said.
They shook hands. ‘Detective Superintendent Bower. Scotland Yard. They woke me soon after midnight. I arrived here before dawn. Breakfast is long overdue.’
‘I take it you two know each other,’ Wilde said.
‘Oh, yes, I know Mr Eaton. But you, Professor Wilde, what brings you here today? I understand Mr Eaton’s interest, of course.’
‘He suggested I tag along.’
‘Morbid curiosity, eh?’ There was the gho
st of a smile on Bower’s lips. He was a shambling man, aged fifty or so, his silver sideburns just visible below his hat. He had intelligent eyes behind a pair of heavy Bakelite spectacles. Despite his shabby suit and stained tie, Wilde suspected that the rundown Mr Bower was a great deal more important than his appearance might suggest.
‘Can we come in?’ Eaton said.
Bower looked at Wilde. ‘I’m not sure this is a place for those without a professional interest.’
‘I’ll vouch for the professor. I’m sure he will be discreet.’
‘Very well. But be prepared for the worst. It’s not pleasant.’
In the drawing room of the house, two constables were picking up scraps of photographs from the floor and trying to put them together like a jigsaw. Wilde could make out Hitler’s toothbrush moustache in one of the emerging images.
Bower took a deep breath. ‘Go easy on the detail when reporting it, Mr Eaton. These were nasty deaths. Mr and Mrs Langley had their throats slit. As far as we can tell, there were no other injuries. But as you will discover, that’s only the half of it. The overtones of the case will become obvious to you. Look around you – photographs have been torn to shreds.’ He swept his hand around the room. ‘So far we have identified the King and Mr Hitler. How are we doing?’ He addressed the two constables.
‘Coming together, sir.’
He turned back to Wilde and Eaton. ‘There’s worse upstairs, I’m afraid. A great deal worse.’
‘Could we take a look?’
‘By all means, gentlemen. I trust you both have strong stomachs. But please tread carefully and don’t touch anything. We don’t want to smudge fingerprints or disturb evidence.’
*
Bloody footprints led from the runner at the top of the staircase to the bedroom and to the bathroom. As he stepped into the bedroom, Wilde felt that he had been transported to an ill-kept slaughterhouse. He had never seen so much blood. The carpet and bed were thick with it, the walls streaked with handprints and blotches.
But the blood wasn’t all sprayed haphazardly. By the bed, he spotted a metal pail with a long-handled paintbrush in it. Someone – the killer or killers – had collected the blood of the victims in the bucket and had used it to paint the walls.
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