Nucleus

by Rory Clements

‘I’m Mrs Weeks from Bury St Edmunds. My maid told me you called earlier this evening. Something about a missing boy. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. A boy named Albert Haas. Do you know something?’

  ‘It’s possible. I picked up a girl of twelve – Anna Rosenheim – who is to stay with us until she can be reunited with her parents. She told me something happened at the German–Dutch border.’

  Lydia’s heart pounded. ‘Can I speak to her?’

  ‘She has no English at all, I’m afraid. But I’m fluent in German. She said they were stopped for ages at the border before they were allowed to cross into Holland. The German officials tipped out all their bags and confiscated anything of value, and generally made themselves unpleasant. They paid special attention to one little boy and made him go with them. When the train eventually moved, he hadn’t returned, so she thought he must have been put in another carriage. But perhaps not . . .’

  ‘Who were these officials? Does she know?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll ask.’

  Down the telephone, she heard Mrs Weeks speaking German, then a girl’s voice, also German. Mrs Weeks came back on. ‘She’s not entirely sure. She doesn’t think they were regular customs men. One was in uniform, one in civvies. Uniforms don’t mean a great deal to children, do they?’

  ‘Could you ask her to describe the boy?’

  There was another rapid German conversation on the other end of the line. ‘It seems the boy wore metal framed glasses,’ Mrs Weeks reported. ‘She remembers he kept pushing them back on the bridge of his nose. He was dark-haired and very quiet. Didn’t say a word to anyone. Zaghaft is the word she used – timid. But that’s hardly surprising. I should have thought all the children were pretty fearful.’

  ‘You said she thought he was six or seven. Albert is eight.’

  ‘Well, of course, Anna can’t be certain. The boy was small . . .’

  ‘So from what Anna says, if this was Albert, it’s possible he never left Germany.’

  There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. ‘They’re utter beasts, aren’t they? To treat little children in such a way. I’ll call you if Anna remembers anything else.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Tom Wilde arrived back in Cambridge in the early afternoon of a warm day in early June, a week before the end of term. Back in March when he left, he had leant into a blustering squall of rain as he struggled into the station. Now, as he stepped out of the train, the sky spoke of a proper English summer. But for all that, he was dismayed by the view from the taxi window, so great were the changes wrought on the town by impending war. Sandbags were being piled high on the pavement around several public buildings, including the police station on St Andrew’s Street and the magistrates’ court.

  A band of about thirty boy scouts was marching down the road just before Jesus Lane. The taxi and other vehicles had to stop to let them past. Several cyclists rang their bells in frustration. The Scouts, shoulders back, knees bare beneath khaki shorts, carried a banner that said defiantly: WE’RE READY, ARE YOU? Wilde smiled. The optimism and certainty of youth.

  ‘Looks like everyone’s getting set for war,’ he muttered.

  The driver picked up his remark. ‘Sad but true, sir. I’ve found myself an allotment out Cherry Hinton way – no more’n hundred foot by thirty – and planted spuds, spuds and more spuds. That’ll see the family through a few months if worse comes to worst.’ He turned briefly to look at his passenger. ‘Is this your first time in Cambridge, may I ask?’

  Wilde laughed. ‘Lived and worked here about five years now.’

  ‘You sound like an American gentleman, sir.’

  ‘Something like that.’ The traffic was moving again. Wilde wound down the window. The cab was stuffy and thick with stale cigarette smoke and he was impatient to get home. He wondered what awaited him. One of the books he had read during his time at sea was Priestley’s English Journey; he had been amused by his brief but excoriating description of Cambridge as being primly pleased with itself. Wilde could not but agree – but Priestley had also commented that it was ‘a lovely old place, far lovelier now than Oxford’. And Wilde had agreed with that, too.

  At last the taxi pulled up outside his modest Georgian house.

  While the driver struggled with his bags, Wilde opened the front door and was confronted by spotless cleanliness and the floral whiff of potent household products. Doris, the charlady he shared with Lydia Morris, had been busy preparing the place for his homecoming. It was certainly an improvement on the smoke pollution he had endured in the cab and on the train from Southampton. Even in the dining car, the food had a faint flavour of soot.

  Scores of letters and packages – two and a half months of mail – were piled up on the table in the kitchen. Most of them would be bills and missed invitations, he guessed. He would look at them all later. He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then took off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He was sweaty and smoky and he needed a shower, but first he wanted a whisky. He found a half-full bottle in the sitting room cabinet where he had left it back in March, and poured himself a good measure. Neat.

  Glass in hand, he wandered around the house. The three bedrooms, the bathroom, his study. Everything was clean and tidy, but there was a silent, unlived-in feeling to the place. Unloved and unoccupied. Was that how it always felt, he wondered, or was it simply because he’d been away?

  He looked out from his study window, over the small back garden, which had been well-tended and mowed. The beds were bursting with flowers and the apple tree was in leaf, just losing the last of its blossom. He looked across to Lydia’s back garden next door. It too, looked in pretty good shape. Was she in? He had wired ahead to let her know when he was arriving and had rather hoped she might meet him off the boat at Southampton, but that was probably expecting too much.

  He unstrapped one of his bags and pulled it open. On the top was a new Billie Holiday disc. He had been captivated by her rendering of a dark and devastating song about a lynching, but he hadn’t been able to find it on record, so he had bought everything else he could find by her in a local store. He located the record player, on a low table beside the wireless, and put on ‘These Foolish Things’. He turned up the volume. The sweet sounds brought new life to the house.

  When the song had finished, he showered, then dressed in clean white shirt and flannels and stepped out from the front door. His eye caught the red pillar box on the pavement at the far end of Lydia’s house. The words An Phoblacht abú! had been hurriedly painted in dripping black. Wilde grimaced. He knew well enough the meaning of the words: the Republic forever. He knew, too, the implication: IRA sympathisers were in town. Word had reached the American newspapers of their activities in England these past few months – over a hundred explosions around the country since the beginning of the year.

  He turned away and walked up to Lydia’s house and rang the bell. Doris answered the door.

  ‘Hello Doris, no Lydia?’

  Doris shook her head, but managed a broad smile. ‘Welcome home, Professor Wilde. No, Miss Morris is still in London, I’m afraid. She asked me to tell you that she would call you on the telephone in the next day or two. I’m sorry, Professor.’

  ‘Not your fault, Doris. And I have to thank you for caring for my place so well. It all looks fine and smells good, too.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so, sir. I’ve aired it every day, except when it was bucketing down. You’ll see I’ve switched on your new refrigerator and I’ve put some groceries in there and in your larder. Mr Raymond has done a good job with the garden.’

  ‘Indeed, he has. You’ll have to tell me how much I owe you. Shall we settle up at the end of the week?’

  ‘That will suit me very well, thank you, sir. Oh – one more thing, Professor. There was a telephone call for you while I was dusting this morning. Mr Philip Eaton from The Times. He asked if you could give him a call. I left his number on the pad by the telephone.’ />
  Eaton? They hadn’t spoken in over two years. Wilde had rather hoped their paths would never cross again. ‘Thank you, Doris,’ he said. ‘I’ll call him.’

  *

  Wilde happily accepted that he would never measure up as an English gentleman, but Harrow had taught him about good and bad form. And it would be bad form not to call Eaton back.

  Even so, he hesitated. Philip Eaton may have been on the staff of The Times, but his true calling was secret intelligence, ostensibly for MI6, though Wilde harboured doubts about his true loyalties. ‘We’re ready, are you?’ the Scouts had chanted. But Wilde didn’t feel he was ready for Philip Eaton. What the hell did the smooth bastard want?

  Only one way to find out. His finger went to the dial.

  The call went through to a secretary, then a minute later, Eaton came on the line.

  ‘Professor Wilde?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Good of you to call back, old boy. I know you’ve only just returned. Hope your journey wasn’t too exhausting.’

  Doris must have told Eaton he’d been away. Or perhaps not. Eaton made it his business to know everything, one way or another.

  ‘What can I do for you, Eaton?’

  A pause. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask. But first, can I ask a rather personal question: what exactly are your living arrangements with Lydia Morris these days?’

  Wilde almost laughed out loud at the gall of the man. ‘None of your business, Eaton! But I’m sure you have a vague idea of your own. You tell me how you think things are.’ He took a hefty mouthful of whisky. He was beginning to think he’d need another shower after this call.

  ‘Well, I know you’ve kept both houses, and I also know you haven’t married, so, well, it all seems a bit unconventional.’

  ‘And why is that any business of yours?’

  ‘Normally it wouldn’t be, but as I said I have a favour to ask you – both of you, actually. I want you to take in a pair of refugees from Nazi Germany. You’d have the man, a displaced physics professor, and Miss Morris, meanwhile, would look out for his niece, who also happens to be a scientist and an old friend of hers from Girton. They’re important people. You’d be doing your bit.’

  ‘Have you put this to Lydia yet?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s agreed to play her part.’

  Did he have any option? Wasn’t every right-thinking person obliged to help refugees at this critical time? ‘I suppose you’d better tell me more.’

  ‘The man’s name is Arnold Lindberg. You probably remember the name.’

  Wilde went cold. How could he forget the name Arnold Lindberg? The deadly events of 1936 had started with a bungled effort by a friend of Lydia to get Arnold Lindberg out of Germany. It had all ended tragically, with the friend dead and Lindberg in Dachau. The greatest surprise was that he was still alive. Wilde said nothing.

  ‘Are you still there, old boy? What do you think?’

  ‘What’s this about, Eaton? Why me? Why split them up?’

  ‘I was planning to come up to Cambridge later today. Perhaps we could talk then.’

  ‘As I recall, Dr Lindberg was a friend of Horace Dill. Wouldn’t he be a better host? For one thing, my German’s pretty basic.’

  Eaton’s voice softened. ‘Yes, Dr Dill would have been a good bet as he and Lindberg are old friends, but what you probably don’t know is that Horace is very ill. He wouldn’t be able to take in a guest at the moment.’

  Horace ill? He had a lot to catch up on after ten weeks away. Wilde sighed. ‘All right, Eaton. Come up – and you can tell me everything.’

  ‘Shall we say six o’clock at the Bull?’

  ‘No, I have matters to attend to in college, and then I’m coming back home.’

  He wanted to be on his own turf for this meeting.

  ‘Then that’s where I shall see you.’

  *

  Wilde had never been entirely comfortable with some of the more arcane traditions of Cambridge, yet he experienced a warm feeling as he crossed the Old Court with his gown flapping behind him: this was a little acre of English heaven.

  The lawn was green and lush, the ivy on the walls in full summer leaf. At his side, one of the porters toiled under the weight of a large box of his books and papers, which had been in storage during his absence. Wilde, clutching the neck of a bottle in his fist, went ahead up the stairs to his rooms. At the top, he saw the welcoming face of his gyp, Bobby, one of the men who served the needs of Fellows and undergraduates alike, keeping fires stoked and kettles filled.

  ‘Good to have you back, Professor. You’ve been missed.’

  ‘By whom, Bobby, your bookie friends?’

  The porter below was struggling to make headway. ‘I’ll help you with them in a mo, Mr Fenton,’ Bobby called down to him, before turning his attention back to the professor. ‘I’m sure I’ve tipped you a winner or two, haven’t I?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m in profit?’

  Bobby grinned, revealing gums almost devoid of teeth. ‘I don’t think I’d go that far, Professor Wilde.’

  ‘Well, all is forgiven if you have a bottle of Scotch on the premises.’

  ‘As always, sir, as always. Fresh from the Buttery this morning.’ He noted the bottle his master was carrying. ‘Looks like you’re well prepared for disappointment, though, Professor.’

  Wilde held out the bottle. ‘This is for you, Bobby. Bourbon.’

  Bobby had been the gyp on these stairs ever since Wilde’s arrival at Cambridge five years earlier, and long before that. Small and wiry, he had at one time been apprenticed to a Newmarket trainer and had entertained hopes of being a top jockey, but a bad fall had done for his dreams. Not that he had lost his love of racing or horses. He looked at the American whiskey bottle with raised eyebrows. ‘Never heard of it, sir, but thank you. You’re a gentleman.’

  ‘I’d be interested to know what you think of it. Personally I prefer the Scotch variety, but there are plenty in the States who swear by this.’

  ‘I’ll share it with the lads and let you know the verdict, sir. It’ll be a rare treat. And now, how about a pot of good English tea, Professor? You’ll have missed that in America.’

  Wilde did not reply. He was staring at a picture on his wall – his only picture, a Winslow Homer painting of an American scene that had been left to him by his father; it showed a farm boy looking out across an endless prairie. He shook himself back to the present. ‘Thank you, Bobby. A cup of tea would be fine in a while. And perhaps you’d see if Hall can make me some sort of late lunch?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Before you go, what is the news of Professor Dill? I’ve heard his health’s not been too good.’

  Bobby grimaced. ‘It’s not looking hopeful. People say he’s got—’ He mouthed a word that Wilde took to be cancer.

  ‘Is he in his rooms?’

  ‘Most likely, sir. He doesn’t get about much.’

  ‘I’ll go and call on him now. Leave lunch half an hour.’

  *

  Horace Dill’s rooms stank of stale cigar smoke, sweat and sickness. Wilde rather felt he could do with a gas mask, but he managed to smile as he stood at his fellow history man’s bedside. Dill was propped up on a bank of pillows.

  Wilde took Dill’s hand. The skin was parchment thin and mottled, and his face was gaunt and more angular than he had known it. ‘You look a sight, Horace.’

  ‘And welcome back to you, too, you filthy Yankee capitalist.’ Dill leant forward, retching and gasping for breath.

  Wilde reached for the tumbler of water on the bedside table and held it to Horace Dill’s mouth. Dill pushed it away. After a few seconds the coughing fit subsided and Dill slumped back into his pillows, taking short, difficult breaths. Wilde proffered the glass of water once more.

  ‘I don’t need fucking water, I need a fucking cigar.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Wise?’ Dill hacked out a laugh and began coughing again. Clutching his mou
th with one hand he pointed towards a table at the far end of the room with the other. Wilde shrugged and went to fetch the half-smoked object from the ashtray where it had been deposited. If Dill had cancer, his chances looked pretty bleak anyway. Why deny a dying man his one pleasure?

  When Dill had recovered from his coughing, Wilde saw that he had specks of coughed-up blood on his fingers where he had cupped his mouth. Wilde offered him a clean handkerchief and smiled as Dill brushed it aside. ‘Here you are, then.’ He handed him the remains of the cigar.

  ‘Light,’ Dill said.

  Wilde found a box of matches on the floor near the hearth. He struck a match. For a few moments he held the flame at arm’s length from Dill, who now had the stub of cigar wedged firmly between his cracked and mottled lips. Shrugging, Wilde moved the flame forward and lit the ash-blackened tip.

  Dill drew as deeply as his corrupt lungs would allow, coughed furiously, then rasped, ‘Thank you, Wilde. I confess it’s good to have you back.’

  ‘Do you need anything, Horace? Grapes, for instance?’

  Dill tried to laugh, but immediately clutched his chest, wheezing. Wilde gently removed the cigar and stubbed it out in the bedside ashtray. ‘Grapes in fucking June?’ Dill managed to croak.

  ‘Perhaps not. Anyway, I’m at your service, whatever you need, and I come bearing news which you might think to be good. You recall Arnold Lindberg and the way he fell into the Gestapo’s hands in ’36?’

  Dill’s rheumy eyes lit up at the name.

  ‘Well, it seems he’s managed to slip out and is presently hiding up somewhere in Britain under the protection of your old student Philip Eaton.’

  ‘Arnold’s really out?’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘Well, that’s a fucking miracle! I want to see him.’

  ‘It could happen. Eaton’s coming to see me later today. He wants me to give Lindberg a room in my house.’

  ‘He should be here, with me.’

  ‘That’s what I said, but apparently word’s got out that your hypochondria was playing up.’

  ‘You know, Tom, you can make light of it, but it’s true. I’m not at all fucking well this time.’ Dill’s voice was faint and strained, his breathing shallow and rasping.