Corpus

by Rory Clements

  ‘If you do this little favour for me and for your sovereign, Harold, I swear that this photograph and the negative from which it was made will be handed to you so that you can destroy them. If, however, I hear that a treasonous meeting has taken place between Baldwin and the duke without my knowledge, then copies of this photograph will be sent to your wife, to the duke and to the editors of every newspaper in London.’

  ‘Sophie, please, I’m not in the loop. If they arrange a meeting as you describe, they’ll have no reason to confide in me. I’m small beer at Royal Lodge.’

  ‘You do yourself a disservice, Harold. You will discover the time and place of this meeting. I know you will – because you know the alternative.’

  ‘But—’

  She patted his cheek. ‘Run along and have your lunch. But don’t dally – get back to Royal Lodge as quickly as you can so that you miss nothing. Nanny expects to hear from you very soon.’

  *

  Wilde picked up the Rudge and made his way to Bene’t Street where he parked directly below Lydia’s office. He found her lying on the floor, curled up.

  ‘So this is what passes for work in your business, is it?’

  She didn’t move or open her eyes. ‘Are you suggesting you work harder than me?’

  He laughed. ‘No.’ He studied her closely. ‘I wanted to see how you were after, you know . . .’

  ‘I’ll be fine if you’ve brought me a flask of coffee.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can go away.’

  ‘I thought we could go to the police station together and give our statements.’

  ‘I’ve already been. The sergeant seemed a lot more interested in the attempted theft of the bracelet than the attack on my person, once he’d ascertained I wasn’t actually raped or injured.’

  ‘I also wanted to know where I can find Dave Johnson.’

  Lydia sat up. ‘Why would you want to know that?’

  ‘Because he knew Nancy pretty well, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yes, he did. But you’ve already spoken to him. I saw you at the Kholtov rally.’

  ‘Something else has occurred to me.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No, I want to talk to him first. Just a vague idea at the moment. Thought I’d drop in on him before I ride out to Sir Norman.’

  ‘OK. Well, when he’s not fomenting revolution, he works as an artist. Lives out at Trumpington and has some sort of studio there. Hang on.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’ve got his address.’ She scattered books and proofs on her work table until she found the contacts book. ‘Here it is. I’ll write it down for you.’

  He took the slip of paper. ‘See you later.’

  *

  The police sergeant told Wilde there had been no sighting of Braithwaite, though there had been a break-in at a gentlemen’s outfitters where a few items of clothing had been stolen. Wilde gave his statement, signed it and then asked whether Detective Superintendent Bower was about.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir, but I can take a message for him if you like. He has taken over an office here. Is it important?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait. Tell him I might look in later.’

  ‘With any luck we’ll have apprehended Braithwaite by then.’

  ‘There’s always hope, sergeant.’

  *

  Johnson’s thatched cottage was in a parlous state of repair; render was coming adrift from the walls and the roof was badly in need of re-thatching.

  When no one answered the door, Wilde walked down the side path. The back garden was in better condition than the house, with a vegetable plot neatly hoed for planting. At the far end of the patch, perhaps a hundred feet from the house, he spotted a large wooden shed with a corrugated roof, hidden in the shade of half a dozen apple trees. Through a grimy window, he saw the dim glow of an electric bulb.

  Wilde tapped on the window, then pushed open the door.

  His sudden appearance made Johnson start. He was standing in front of a large easel, wielding a paintbrush. Recovering, he welcomed his visitor with a slightly bemused smile. ‘Not often I get such esteemed visitors, professor.’

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr Johnson.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ Johnson put the paintbrush down.

  ‘It’s about Nancy. You knew her better than most, I think.’

  Johnson looked as if he weighed less than a bag of coal. Eight stone, nine at the most. He was wearing an old black jacket and knitted red tie, the same clothes he had worn to the Kholtov rally the previous evening. The only difference was the scarf he wore loosely tied around his lower face, concealing his threadbare beard and the burns. In his left hand, he had a narrow-tipped brush; in his right a palette coated with thick blobs of paint. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Take the handshake as read.’

  Wilde looked about the room. A small pot stove was belching out heat in the far corner of the room, but here by the door, the air was chilly. He found the powerful smell of oil paint quite pleasant.

  Many pictures were in evidence, hung at odd angles, leaning against shelves or walls or lying flat on the bare boards. Johnson was working on a large canvas that stood almost as tall as himself. It depicted a blacksmith at his anvil, hammer raised. There was something of Stanley Spencer about the work, without being in any way a copy.

  ‘It’s good,’ Wilde said, meaning it.

  ‘You don’t have to say that.’

  ‘Well, it is good. I like it.’

  ‘I’m painting all the dying professions. The smiths, the cartwrights, the weavers. The honest-to-God working men. They’re all gone or going.’ He nodded towards a tea pot on the stove. ‘Just brewing up. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  Johnson found a place for his painting implements, and then poured two cups, adding milk and lots of sugar without asking. He handed the least cracked of the two vessels to Wilde, then began rolling a cigarette. ‘The problem at this time of year is keeping the bloody damp out. Damages my work before I can sell the stuff.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘What more do you want to know about Nancy? I’ve been friends with her for years, through the Socialist Club. But as I said last night, I can’t see there’s any more to say – it was an accident.’

  ‘Last night I found myself wondering about your burns.’

  ‘Really? I don’t usually make that much impression on people.’ Johnson unwound the scarf. ‘I’m not ashamed of them, you know.’

  ‘I suppose some people would call them a badge of honour.’

  Johnson snorted. ‘Badge of honour be damned. None of us wanted our wounds. None of us wanted our friends to die. Were you there, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘No. My mother took me back to America in 1915, when I was sixteen. That was just after the Germans used gas at Ypres. She’s Irish. Her words were, “I’m damned if you’re being gassed for an English king, Tom.” ’

  ‘Sensible woman. But the Yanks brought in conscription, didn’t they?’

  ‘I was drafted in August 1918. Never made it out of America.’ In his gut, Wilde felt he should have been in the trenches, like so many young men of his generation. There was a vague feeling of guilt that wouldn’t quite go away. Duncan Sawyer had known all too well what he was doing when he had asked that bitter question: ‘what exactly did you do in the war?’

  ‘Well, you missed nothing,’ Johnson said. ‘There was no glory. And what was our heroes’ welcome? Unemployment and hunger.’

  ‘And you?’ Wilde nodded towards his face. ‘I can only imagine the pain of such an injury. You must have been in agony. Perhaps you still are . . .’

  ‘And your point is?’ The welcoming smile had vanished.

  ‘From what I know of such things, heroin – diamorphine – would be the best form of pain relief in a case like yours.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s where this is going.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Drink
your tea, professor. I’ve a painting to work on.’

  ‘Someone introduced Nancy Hereward to the drug. Was it you?’

  ‘You can think what you like. I really have no more to say to you.’

  ‘And having introduced her to the drug, did you continue to supply her when other sources dried up? What I’m really getting at is this: did she die of an overdose because of you?’

  ‘God, you’re an unpleasant bastard!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll rephrase that. Was the heroin that killed her supplied by you? That’s a straight question, and believe me, if I had been through what you have, I’d use the stuff, too. And I know that once you start it’s very difficult to stop.’

  For ten seconds the silence was broken only by the faint soughing of the stove. The two men’s eyes met and held. ‘I think I’ve got my answer,’ Wilde said at last.

  ‘All right, I suppose I did – inadvertently – lead her into addiction. I confess, if you must. She knew I used it and she asked me what it felt like, and so I told her. You know the euphoria, particularly in the early days, is as close to heaven as you’ll get on earth. Perhaps I was a little too enthusiastic. She badgered me to let her try some and eventually I gave in. I reasoned that if I didn’t do it, she’d go somewhere else, which would not have been a good idea. The problem is, once she started, she wouldn’t let it go. But she was all right. She was still working for the cause, still functioning normally. Most of us do, you know. Just talk to a few jazz musicians in America. They’re all on it, and still playing like angels.’

  ‘And you gave her the last dose.’

  ‘It was fine! There was nothing wrong with it. I shared it with her and I suffered no bad effects. It was just a damned unfortunate accident, that’s all. Absolutely bloody. She must have overestimated her tolerance or perhaps she had some undiagnosed weakness of the heart. You never know, do you? But that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Where do you get your supplies?’

  He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘I’m not going to name names to you or anyone else, but there’s no crime involved, so I’ll tell you this much: I get it from one of the medics who put me back together in the war. Unlike the government, he didn’t just abandon me. It’s all perfectly legal under the 1926 Act. He’s not alone in understanding how difficult it is for some of us to live without it. But I’ve only ever used properly regulated medical supplies. I don’t touch the dirty underground stuff and nor, I think, did Nancy. I drummed that into her.’

  ‘Just because you got it legally doesn’t mean it was lawful to sell it on.’

  ‘Sell it? I didn’t sell it. No money changed hands. She was a friend.’

  Wilde sipped his tea. It was far too sweet. ‘There are other matters. You mentioned her work for the cause.’

  ‘Look, I don’t really know what all this has to do with you. Are you a government spy or something? Keeping an eye on the commies?’

  ‘I’m a history professor, trying to allay Lydia’s concerns.’

  ‘Are we done? I need to get on.’

  ‘Almost.’ Wilde paused. ‘What do you know about Berlin?’ The question took Johnson off guard.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Berlin. You know all about Nancy and Berlin, don’t you? You and Horace Dill. What was she supposed to do there?’

  ‘I know Nancy went to the Olympics with Lydia. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Something happened there.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t there, so I have no idea what you’re going on about. As far as I know Nancy and Lydia watched a bit of running and jumping and saw the sights. Oh – and Nancy wrote that piece about the tyranny behind the great games. If you want to know the full details of what went on in Berlin, you’d better ask Lydia. As for Horace Dill, you’re both fellows of the same college, aren’t you? Why don’t you talk to him and sod off and leave me to my work.’

  Wilde handed over his empty cup. ‘Thank you.’

  Johnson hesitated then smiled awkwardly. Because of the burn scars, the creases around his mouth were like parchment so that the smile seemed like a grimace. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit wound up. I miss her badly.’

  ‘I understand.’

  As Wilde reached the door, Johnson called after him.

  ‘And you know, we do get a hard time from the police and the secret boys. Look, if she was murdered, then of course I want to find out who did it.’ He went over and proffered his hand. ‘Shake and be friends? We’re on the same side, yes?’

  CHAPTER 17

  Wilde rode to St Wilfred’s Priory along dry, fast roads. On arrival, he pulled up outside the front door and pulled the bell.

  This time, a liveried footman ushered him in and went off to find his master. Sir Norman Hereward walked slowly down the hall and extended his hand. ‘Ah, Wilde.’

  ‘Sir Norman.’

  ‘Thank you for coming. I apologise for your previous wasted trip. I really wasn’t up to receiving visitors or talking about Nancy. I’m sure you’ll understand that this has hit me very hard.’

  ‘You have my condolences, sir.’

  Hereward gave a perfunctory nod. ‘I take it you’ve heard of this new business at Kilmington? Cecil and Penny Langley?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He wouldn’t mention that he had been there, not yet anyway.

  ‘Ghastly. Simply ghastly. They were friends of mine, you know. Damned good friends. Bloody awful affair.’ There was a pause and then he muttered almost under his breath, ‘I can’t bear it.’

  Wilde had noted how much the man had aged when he had seen him at Nancy’s house, but in the intervening days and hours he had become ancient, stooped and frail. Even this early in the day, the stink of brandy seemed to emanate from every pore. He turned and led the way slowly down the hall.

  ‘Please, come through into my study. I would like us to agree on at least one thing – Nancy’s death was neither suicide nor accident. It was murder. And with the police doing damn all, I’ll listen to anyone with an idea.’

  Wilde followed him through to a large, comfortably masculine room with a view out across the deer park to a tree-fringed lake and thick wintry woodland beyond. Every inch of the walls was packed with shelves, and every shelf was packed with books, many of them leather-bound and old. Three of the corners were occupied by marble Roman busts that looked, at first glance, to be genuine.

  ‘Coffee, Wilde?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  The footman, who was hovering, bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Do sit down. Tell me what you know and we can go from there.’

  There were two leather armchairs by the cold, fireless hearth, the sort of armchairs to be found in the better gentlemen’s clubs, well-worn, scratched and much-loved. Wilde sank into the one nearest the window. At first it seemed that Sir Norman would remain standing, but then he, too, sat down.

  Wilde took a deep breath. ‘You know, Sir Norman, I was rather hoping you would be able to help me. When we met at your daughter’s house, you were insistent that she was murdered and you seemed sure that it had a political motive. I was hoping you might have some reason to suppose that, something I might follow up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘For instance, do you have any reason to believe Nancy’s death might be linked to the events at Kilmington?’

  ‘It hadn’t occurred to me. Go on.’

  ‘I went to Kilmington, Sir Norman. I saw the room where your friends died. There was writing on the walls.’ He didn’t mention that the daubs were in blood. ‘One said simply Revolution. Also hammers and sickles.’

  ‘Good God ! What were you doing there?’

  ‘A friend of mine is a reporter. I went with him.’ No names, no more explanation.

  Hereward shook his head grimly. ‘So you think the Reds killed them too?’

  ‘I have no idea if the Reds have killed anyone. I’m merely laying out the evidence. There is an obvious connection between your two famil
ies. Nancy was Margot’s friend.’

  ‘Well, she was while they were both at Girton, but I’m not sure they kept in touch after that, and I’m pretty sure she’s had nothing to do with Cecil or Penny these past four or five years.’

  ‘But you have, sir.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’m clutching at straws here, Sir Norman, but you and Mr Langley were both to the right, politically. Is it possible that someone was getting at you both because of those views? Someone trying to get at you by harming Nancy?’

  ‘That is an inhuman notion, but carry on, Wilde. I want to hear where you think this is going.’

  A maid arrived bearing a silver tray of coffee, along with fine china cups and bowls of cream and sugar. Sir Norman took his coffee with both. Wilde kept his brew black and unsweetened. The coffee smelt and tasted good.

  Sir Norman stood up and went over to the window. ‘We’re burying her tomorrow morning, here at our local church. She had made her feelings very plain to me – she never wanted to come near St Wilfred’s Priory again, but I won’t have it. She’s one of us and will lie with her mother and our forebears. Her brothers are interred in Flanders.’ He dredged up a deep, anguished sigh. ‘As you know, Nancy and I didn’t see eye to eye on much in recent months. But in death, she is still my daughter, she is still a Hereward.’

  Wilde rose from the depths of the armchair. He wanted to get out of this cold room.

  Hereward was on another plane. ‘You probably think you know it all, Wilde . . . the college scandal, the opium. But there was something else. Horace Dill. That filthy swine Dill poisoned her mind with all his lies about Stalin’s people’s paradise. Dill and others like him should be hanged for high treason. I cannot think why such men are allowed to roam free, spreading their wicked message to impressionable young minds, sending them off to fight for alien causes. Dill turned her against England and her father. That is what happened. The gallows is too good for him.’

  ‘Might I see her room, do you think?’

  Hereward gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I don’t see why not. Drink your coffee and I’ll take you up. Like her brothers’ rooms, it hasn’t been touched.’