Kholtov laughed. He would never get out alive if he went by train. ‘Very generous, Mr Eaton, but I think I will go through the mountains. Up to Prats de Mollo, then down the Tech Valley, then it will be easy through France. I will call you from Dover – and you will help me with another little matter.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It is not much. A little service. It will be easy for you. I will explain everything when I arrive.’
‘Leave a message with The Times.’ Eaton had handed him his card.
But, Kholtov thought bitterly, Eaton had failed him. Neither he nor the fat gold-dealer he had brought was to be trusted. He raised his head from the furrow. Somehow he had to get out of this field and reach the coast where the Gaviota and the gold awaited him. He would head for the open seas: there was no trade to be done here.
*
From Windsor Great Park, Wilde was taken across country to a dull military office in an army garrison on the eastern margins of Salisbury Plain. Men came and went, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes. None of them identified themselves. He guessed they were military intelligence, possibly MI5. He said the same thing to each of them. ‘I need to get out of here urgently. Call Philip Eaton. Please.’ He had handed them Eaton’s card with Carstairs’s number on it. To no avail.
Fighting exhaustion, he gave them the story, as he knew it. He told them again and again about Lydia, begged them to call Eaton, and got no answer. He was suspected of involvement in the deaths of two young men found at his house in Cambridge, he was told. He indicated his bandaged head. ‘And do you think I did this to myself, too?’
Sometime before dawn, he lay down on the floor and fell asleep. He dreamed that his long-dead father came to him and held him in his arms, a thing that had never happened while he was alive. His father told him that the boy in the Winslow Homer picture was him, young Tom. You were the boy with the longing in his eyes. It was a dream so real that when he awoke later, he still felt the warmth of the old man’s arms about him and he wanted to cry.
At about six o’clock, they brought him bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and a mug of very sweet tea.
The questioning started again and continued throughout the morning. And then, just before midday, Philip Eaton arrived and the mood changed.
‘You look a state,’ were the first words Eaton uttered. ‘We need to get you cleaned up.’
‘You don’t look so good yourself. But to hell with that – what about Lydia?’
‘Ah, yes, that’s not good news. Come on, let’s get you back to Cambridge.’
CHAPTER 39
Tom Wilde had not come for her. And nor had Hereward. She had found that death came slowly, that if you suppressed your hysteria and the horror of having a gag in your mouth, you could take in just enough air through your nostrils to keep you alive.
Now the thirst had taken hold. Hereward hadn’t even had the decency to give her water. Even on the field of battle, you would put your flask to the lips of a dying enemy. She needed badly to pee and held out as long as she could and then gave in. The warm sensation of the urine on her legs at least told her she was alive and the relief of emptying her bladder was almost pleasurable.
Later, a glint of light entered the gloom. Morning. Dawn should be a harbinger of hope, but the pain of her bindings and the unforgiving stone beneath her body, the thirst and the lack of air allowed no room for hope. Drifting in and out of consciousness, the end, she knew, was very near.
*
Sitting in Eaton’s black Austin Ten as they hurtled along the long road back to Cambridge, Wilde finally exploded. ‘You didn’t find her? God damn you, where is she?’
‘I’m sorry. Bower’s men are supposedly scouring the priory inch by inch.’
‘And Hereward?’
‘I was about to beat the truth out of him when Bower turned up.’
‘Bower? What was he doing there?’
‘Protecting Hereward.’
‘Surely you don’t think Bower is involved with North Sea?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Good God, then there’s no hope for Lydia. Put your foot down, God damn it.’ Wilde retreated into a murderous silence.
Eaton glanced at him. ‘You realise you saved the life of the duke and the prime minister?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Wilde shortly. ‘The marksman did that.’
‘But he hadn’t seen Dorfen until you disturbed him. Snipers, like hawks, seek out movement – and you made Dorfen move.’
‘And your role in all this?’
Eaton smiled. ‘All in good time, Wilde. All in good time.’ He accelerated into a bend. Beside him, Wilde chewed his fingernails and looked out of the window. The weather was deteriorating.
*
‘One thing still puzzles me,’ Wilde said, as they approached Cambridge. ‘If you got nothing from Hereward, how come the troops were waiting at Royal Lodge?’
Eaton gave Wilde a quick glance. ‘MI5,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d known for quite a while that something was going to happen. It was the reason I was in Cambridge.’ Trying to bribe, blackmail and beat it out of Kholtov, he thought. ‘I just didn’t know what or where or when. Five were going about it another way. They learnt from a wire tap that something was going to happen at Royal Lodge and sent in the army at the last moment.’
‘Who was being tapped?’
‘Wallis Simpson – but that information goes no further than this car. Strange tale. Have you heard of Sophie Gräfin von Isarbeck? She’s extremely wealthy and rather exotic and a good friend of Mrs Simpson – and a favoured chum of Adolf Hitler. When the abdication crisis was coming to a head, our friends in Five realised she was communicating with Mrs Simpson every day – and by Friday they had decided it might be wise to listen in to her other telephone conversations. Yesterday, they discovered that she was blackmailing one of the Duke of York’s aides. He told her where and when the prime minister would be meeting the duke. Baldwin was actually on his way to Royal Lodge when the decision was made to send in a company of men, just as a precaution.’
‘And you knew nothing of this?’ Wilde was incredulous.
Eaton made a face. ‘Five and Six don’t always communicate very well.’
‘But how did you hear about the White Russians? What sent you here to Cambridge?’
For a couple of minutes, they drove on in silence. ‘All right,’ Eaton said at last. ‘I knew something about the White Russian plot from Yuri Kholtov.’
‘How did he know about it?’
‘The Russians were in Spain. He heard it there.’
‘And called MI6 to tell you?’
‘No, I was in Spain too. Kholtov gave me information in exchange for safe passage and help with a deal involving gold. Unfortunately, he didn’t give me nearly enough.’
‘You didn’t mention you’d met Kholtov in Spain. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?’
‘Look.’ Eaton’s voice was sharper. ‘I knew something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I had no idea a bloody Junkers JU-52 transport plane was going to land in the middle of Cambridgeshire. I had no idea what the target was. Nor was I sure who was involved at the English end.’
If Eaton hadn’t been driving, Wilde would have punched him. While he had been playing his spy games, innocent men and women had been slaughtered – and now Lydia was missing. ‘Damn you, Eaton, what have you done?’
*
It was past three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Eaton brought the car to a halt on the forecourt of St Wilfred’s Priory. Two uniformed police officers stood to attention outside the front door. Four police cars and an ambulance with its rear doors wide open and its engine running were parked side by side on the gravel. There was a buzz of activity among the ambulance men and plainclothes officers.
‘Christ,’ said Eaton in disgust. ‘It’s Bower.’ He turned to Wilde. ‘Say nothing about last night. We don’t know what he knows.’
Superintendent Bower,
in a suit that would have shamed a tramp, was talking with a uniformed police inspector. He nodded to Eaton and Wilde without removing his pipe from his mouth. Smoke billowed forth, mixing with the vapour trails from his nostrils. The man-made cloud dispersed, to be followed a few seconds later by another.
‘Still no sign of her, superintendent?’ Eaton demanded.
‘None.’
‘What have you done with Hereward? I left you with him last night.’
‘Indeed you did, but as he had no knowledge of Miss Morris’s whereabouts, I had no cause to detain him. It seems everything has changed today. Unfortunately, Sir Norman has also gone missing.’
‘Someone must know where he is.’
‘The servants don’t know where he is, or Miss Morris. I think we’re probably looking in the wrong place. My men have been through the house with the proverbial fine-toothed comb but there’s no sign of the young lady. Now they’re fanning out through the estate, but it’s one hell of a size.’ Bower turned to Wilde. ‘I have to warn you, professor, we’re thinking of getting divers in to search the lake. . .’
As he spoke, a pair of officers emerged from the north side of the house, half-dragging, half-marching Sir Norman Hereward onto the driveway. His head was slumped forward and it looked as if he was having difficulty standing up.
The officers stopped in front of Bower. ‘Dead drunk, sir. Found him down by the lake, trying to wade into the water.’
‘Let him go,’ Eaton said.
The officers removed their supporting arms. Hereward lurched forward but managed to keep his balance. Eaton shook him hard. He grunted but did not raise his head.
Wilde strode forward and gave Hereward a vicious smack to the head with the palm of his hand. ‘Where is she?’
Hereward’s head snapped back, mouth dribbling. Wilde hit him again.
Bower tried to pull Wilde away. ‘That’s enough, sir.’
Wilde shook him off. ‘Where’s Lydia, God damn you?’
Hereward opened his eyes. ‘Don’t know what you’re—’
Eaton pushed Wilde aside and gripped Hereward by the throat. ‘Get this into your brain, you fool. You have one chance of escaping the noose. One chance. If you don’t tell us where Lydia Morris is, you will be charged with murder and high treason and you will be hanged.’
Hereward pushed ineffectually at Eaton. Eaton tightened his grip.
‘Where is she?’
‘The ice house, damn it!’ Hereward slurred the words. ‘She’s in the ice house.’ He clasped his hands to his head. ‘She’ll be all right . . .’ Eaton released him and he fell back into the arms of the two constables. ‘They would have killed her.’
‘My God,’ Wilde said. ‘It’s freezing. She’s been there twenty-four hours . . .’
Hereward closed his eyes again. The officers had released his arms and he was standing on his own two feet. He ran a hand across his grey, sweat-slick brow to gather himself. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he repeated.
*
They frogmarched Hereward into the woods. He stumbled and vomited several times, but they pushed him on. A police sergeant and a doctor had joined them; the ambulance on the forecourt was ready. Wilde’s stomach was churning. He had seen too much death in these last hours.
Hereward stopped by a thicket of twisting vines and sharp-thorned brambles.
‘This is it.’ He was beginning to sober up. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘She’s in there. My God . . .’
The brick building was almost invisible from the path. Wilde clawed his way through the brambles into the darkness. At first he could see nothing, only smell the damp. ‘A light,’ he demanded. ‘A torch or a match, someone.’
The sergeant switched on his torch and they peered in. In the far depths of the cold brick interior, a bundle of old clothes was the only sign of human habitation. But the bundle was not clothes; it was Lydia.
Wilde climbed in and fell to his knees by her side. Her body was cold. He ripped at her bindings, tore the gag from her mouth, fought to release the cords that held her to the iron ring. He clutched her to him and she was as limp as an old doll. He put his hand to her cold throat, trying to detect some pulse, some warmth. Nothing. He held her wrist, desperate for even the faintest sign of life.
The doctor was at his side, pushing him away. He held up a hand. ‘Keep that light focused in this direction, sergeant.’
Wilde backed off as the doctor cupped his hand behind Lydia’s head, then shone a penlight at her eyes. ‘That’s good, Lydia, that’s good,’ he said. Then he pressed two fingers lightly on her neck.
‘Oh Christ,’ Wilde said. ‘Is she . . .’
‘There’s a pulse,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s faint, but it’s there.’
*
They carried her on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. Wilde tried to get in beside her, but Eaton gripped his arm. ‘Leave it to the experts, Tom.’
The doctor climbed in, the doors closed and the ambulance lurched forward.
‘Drive me to the hospital,’ Wilde said. ‘I’ve got to be with her.’
Eaton turned to Bower. ‘Take Sir Norman Hereward into custody and when he’s sobered up you can question him to your heart’s content. You can talk to Professor Wilde later. Come on, Tom.’
Eaton was saying, ‘Stay close to her, because there might not be another chance.’ He was saying that she might not come out of this. Wilde’s blood ran cold.
CHAPTER 40
He sat in the waiting room for hour after hour. At times he paced. Sometimes he confronted a passing nurse or doctor and demanded information. Very little was forthcoming. And when they offered to look at his own head wound he wouldn’t let them near it.
Day turned to night and still no word. At last, the doctor who had been with them when they found Lydia came out. He looked exhausted.
‘She’s going to be all right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Can I see her?’ He had to see for himslf.
‘Just for a moment.’ He hesitated. ‘Her body temperature was very low when we found her. She’s done well to survive.’
*
For a few moments, Wilde simply looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her breathing hardly noticeable. He had never realised before quite how beautiful she was. And she was alive.
She opened her eyes when he said her name. A small smile crossed her lips. ‘Tom?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘Your head . . . what’s happened?’
‘My head’s fine. Don’t worry about anything.’
‘I want to sleep.’ She closed her eyes again.
‘Yes, sleep.’ There was a lot to talk about. It would wait. ‘Sleep, Lydia.’
He leant over and took her in his arms. She was limp and yielding and warm. Her breathing was soft and steady. He kissed her forehead. He released her gently and she sank into the pillow.
*
He couldn’t face going home. Instead, he walked the short distance to the college. He would have a large Scotch and sleep the night in his rooms, in preparation for the grim hours of questions and answers that lay ahead. Like the loyal college servant he was, Scobie nodded him through, eyeing the rust-coloured clots of blood in his hair and on his clothes without comment. Who knew what he’d heard about the events of the previous night? Rumours would be rife in this small university town.
Even as he dragged himself up his staircase, Wilde could smell the tobacco smoke. He pushed the door of his rooms open but did not step inside. The light was on.
‘Who’s there?’
A faint shuffling noise, then silence.
Wilde kept an old walking stick by the door, one that he sometimes took with him when he went birdwatching. He grabbed it.
Yuri Kholtov was by the window, standing on one leg, supporting himself against the sill. He, too, had a stick, a bit of wildwood.
‘Pr
ofessor Wilde, I have nowhere else to go. You must help me. Please, I beg you.’
Kholtov moved to the centre of the room. His face was bruised and cut, and he was limping badly. He couldn’t put any weight on his left leg.
‘What’s happened to you?’ Wilde kept the stick in a firm grasp.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Someone has beaten you.’
Kholtov shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t look too good yourself, Professor Wilde.’ He slumped down heavily on the sofa, flinching. ‘I need your help. My ankle is shattered.’
‘What’s happened to the safe house?’
‘Look at me.’ He tried to laugh. ‘Do you think it was safe? I had to get away.’
‘And how did you manage that?’
‘I crawled to the road. It was painful and slow. And then I was fortunate. A beet wagon stopped and gave me a ride.’
‘You realise, of course, you’re wanted for a series of murders? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t simply turn you in?’
‘Professor Wilde, you have to believe me. I have committed no crimes in England. I was invited. I am a guest. And now I merely want to leave the country in peace.’
Wilde took the peseta coin from his pocket and flicked it towards Kholtov. It span through the air and landed at his feet. ‘Explain that then. It was found in Nancy Hereward’s house.’
Kholtov snorted contemptuously. ‘It is a Spanish coin, that’s all.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘I had never met Miss Hereward. I did not go to her house, so no, it cannot be mine.’
Wilde did not bother to pick up the coin. As clues went, it was worthless. He changed the subject. ‘Shouldn’t you be asking Horace Dill for assistance?’
‘His rooms are locked and he’s not there.’
Very convenient, Professor Dill. There was only one man to deal with this: Philip Eaton. How had he allowed the Kholtov situation to spin so far out of control?
‘You can talk to no one. I trust no one.’
‘I’ll talk to Philip Eaton.’
‘No!’ Kholtov began to rise from the sofa. ‘Not Eaton. He is the devil.’
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