Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘Something like that,’ Wilde said. He looked past him to the large figure of Northgate, a man he trusted a great deal more than the officious John Tomlinson. He handed the Special Branch officer the bottle Lancing had removed from the Nursery. ‘Whatever you do, don’t drop that. Don’t attempt to open it because it almost certainly contains a poison gas. There are four more in the building, all disarmed. There is also one at Miss Lydia Morris’s house. We haven’t heard any explosions, so we are assuming that none have gone off, that there are no others and that the building is now safe. But it would be advisable to leave it for at least an hour. Then bring in specialist chemists to take them away for analysis. Is that clear, Mr Northgate?’

  Northgate nodded. He wore a grudging smile: not bad for an amateur, Mr Wilde.

  At his side, the blood had drained from Tomlinson’s already pale face.

  Wilde walked away, through the arched gateway out onto Free School Lane, Lancing at his shoulder. Wilde was trying to calm his nerves. He looked left and right. A man in a dark grey suit with a regimental tie was walking towards him, cigarette in mouth, yellow silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Are you Professor Wilde by any chance?’

  ‘Guy Rowlands?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Wilde. And this is Dr Geoffrey Lancing, a senior man here at the Cavendish.’

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you both,’ Rowlands said briskly. ‘Have I missed some sort of show?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Wilde tilted his chin towards the arched gateway. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Northgate will fill you in. Just don’t let him drop one of those bottles. Some sort of poison gas, we think.’

  ‘You’ll be hanging around, yes?’

  Wilde looked at Geoff, who turned his gaze towards the Rudge Special.

  ‘We’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime, Miss Lydia Morris will be along any moment. She’ll help. I’m afraid we have a plane to catch . . .’

  CHAPTER 41

  Wilde rode at high speed along the familiar roads south. He had picked up the Walther PP on the way out and felt its comforting weight in his pocket as he swerved and leaned through the bends. The Rudge was riding well today. In fine weather on a dry country road she was unbeatable.

  He and Geoff had said nothing as they mounted the motorbike. They both knew where they were going. On a narrow lane close to Boldbourne, a farm wagon pulled by a tractor appeared as if from nowhere. Wilde didn’t slow down, just left the road, bouncing along the dusty verge before slotting in again ahead of the vehicle. The front wheel rose as he accelerated away from the astonished tractor driver.

  And then, at last, they were at the large tarmac area at the front of the airfield. Wilde skidded to a halt and looked around. If the police had ever been here, they were long gone.

  ‘Over there,’ Lancing said, pointing towards the grass runway at the other side of the buildings.

  The Hornet Moth was taxiing forward. Even three hundred yards away, he could tell that two people were in the cockpit – Clarissa and Flood. And she was at the controls. As he watched, the little plane lined up for take-off, directly into the light wind. The throttle opened and she sped along the dry grass.

  ‘Damn it.’

  Could he race across the open airfield and block take-off? No chance. Wouldn’t get there. Wouldn’t work if they did. They’d all die. Even as his thoughts raced he realised it was too late: the Hornet Moth had become airborne and was gaining altitude. Nothing on God’s earth could prevent them escaping.

  ‘Damn.’

  More even than his need for retribution, was the knowledge that they were carrying secret papers. Not all of them, because Wilde had secreted the most important portion in Horace Dill’s rooms, but perhaps enough to give the Germans an edge. And now they were on their way to Berlin.

  Wilde rode the Rudge the short distance to the hangar and looked in. There was no sign of last night’s scene. No corpse. Only a dark patch where the body had bled. Lancing’s yellow Sopwith was there, but it was out of commission. The engine casing was open, and parts were carefully strewn around.

  ‘They’ll have buried the body somewhere nearby. Come on, Geoff, let’s go and find it.’

  ‘No, Tom. Duxford.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Duxford. I told my sister I had something on this morning. I didn’t tell her what it was, but in fact it’s an appointment with a rather fine little Supermarine Spitfire. I’m a little late – it’ll be overheating. The Spits hate being on the ground too long.’

  Wilde raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this a good idea?’

  Lancing threw up his hands. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. What do you think, Tom?’

  Wilde shrugged helplessly. What was the point in arguing? Leave it to the police to find the body. And the Hornet Moth was long gone. With a range of six hundred miles it could be heading anywhere. If Geoff wanted to go flying, that was his prerogative.

  *

  A sunny day in June. Cambridgeshire at its very finest. New green growth everywhere and the morning air fresh and warming up fast. On any other day, Wilde could have found nowhere finer to ride his Rudge Special, his superb and trustworthy 500cc motorbike, a racing champion.

  He would have stopped beside a field of young wheat or barley, strolled to the edge of a copse with his binoculars and whiled away a couple of hours watching the larks and the lapwings, the buzzards rising lazily on the warm air, kestrels hovering and hunting for small rodents.

  Not today. This morning he saw nothing but the road ahead and a speck in the distant sky. Was that really the Hornet Moth or was it just his imagination?

  *

  The Royal Air Force base at Duxford aerodrome was seven miles from Boldbourne. Once again, Wilde threw the Rudge into the bends with abandon. They arrived at their destination in under fifteen minutes. He did a quick calculation. The Hornet Moth cruised at about a hundred miles an hour, so it would already be twenty-five or thirty miles distant.

  As he pulled up close to the flight hut, Wilde turned to Lancing, who was already dismounting from the pillion. ‘Geoff, this is pointless. You won’t stop them.’

  ‘I want to see where they’re going.’

  ‘Damn it, Geoff, there’s nothing you can do!’

  ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Professor Wilde.’

  In the hut, Lancing was greeted by a Flight Lieutenant and a Flying Officer.

  ‘When are you going to give up playing with test tubes and Bunsen burners and do the decent thing?’ the Flight Lieutenant asked cheerfully.

  ‘Next month at the latest,’ Lancing said. ‘I’m off for officer training.’

  ‘Well, you’d better hurry – don’t want to miss the war!’

  Lancing donned his white flying overalls and helmet with headphones and mic, then strode with Wilde towards the Spitfire. It was attended by two men, the fitter and the rigger, one in shirt-sleeves with cap askew, the other stripped to the waist and streaked with oil.

  ‘Morning, Dr Lancing. She’s all ready for you.’

  ‘Full tank, corporal?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The engine was turning. The two ground crewmen assisted Lancing up on to the wing.

  As he stepped into the cockpit, strapping himself into the parachute and safety harness, he glanced back at Wilde. ‘Shame it’s not a two-seater, Tom.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ve got enough to do down here.’

  Lancing did his checks. Oil and coolant temperatures getting towards high, but still within the margins. RPM 1,000, cranking it up to 1,500. Switch mags on and off, thumbs up to the engineer, mask clamped to his face and wave away the chocks. Throttle open. Push stick forward to get the tail up. A blast of smoke belched from the exhaust stacks and the plane began to bounce out along its take-off path, weaving into the breeze.

  Wilde watched him accelerate and then he was in the air. As the Spitfire arced into the sky, its und
ercarriage neatly retracting as Lancing pumped the hydraulic lever, Wilde wished he was going with his friend. The sky looked good today. Blue and clear and free.

  He turned to the corporal. ‘That thing isn’t armed is it?’

  ‘Lord, no, sir. No peas in the pea-shooter today. They’re never kept armed. The only time there are any bullets on board is when the pilots have live ammunition exercises, which is rare.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. By the way, what sort of chance would a pilot like Dr Lancing have if he was searching for another small plane?’

  ‘Unless he knew exactly where he was going, none at all sir. Absolutely bloody none.’

  *

  Wilde watched the fighter plane until it disappeared, then turned away and walked back to his motorbike. He patted the black fuel tank. She might not be able to fly, but in her own environment there was none better.

  Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the gates of the Hawksmere Old Hall estate. Slowly, he turned into the entrance and allowed the Rudge to crawl down the drive. The peacock he had seen on his first visit strode sedately across his path. Apart from that, there was no sign of life. In the forecourt, he stopped, raised the bike onto its stand and looked up at the old Tudor building. It really was magnificent; wasted on a man like Milt Hardiman. For some time it had been in the back of his mind that Albert might be held here. The boy Theo had had a friend – an imaginary friend so it was said – and Wilde had found himself wondering. But that had never been the case; Albert was held prisoner by a woman named Fanny Winch. At least he seemed to have been treated decently enough; that was a small mercy.

  Wilde hammered at the front door. There was no response so he tried the handle. Locked. He walked across the forecourt, his shoes crunching the gravel, then onto the grass and around to the back where the marquee had been. It was no longer there. He looked down towards the boathouse and thought about Birbach and Fanny Winch. Had she really needed to play out her role so realistically? She had certainly succeeded in her task of luring poor Birbach into the waiting arms of her confederates. Wilde wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, if only the aftermath hadn’t been so appalling.

  Most of the windows at the back of the house were curtained or shuttered, but the main drawing room’s curtains were drawn back so he was able to see inside. Everything was as he had last seen it. No dust sheets. They had left in the night in a hurry. Someone else would close the place up.

  What, Wilde wondered, had become of their operatives – the drivers and the servants? Had they been supplied by the German American Bund? Perhaps they had been ordered to melt into anonymity in England and await orders some time in the future? That was something for Special Branch to look into.

  He found a half-glazed door around the back of the house that looked as if it led into some sort of kitchen storeroom. It had been locked from the inside, the key still in the keyhole. Turning side on, he cracked his elbow into the glass, shattering it. He leant in and turned the key.

  The room was a large larder or pantry with rows of tin cans on shelves, a couple of hams hanging from ceiling hooks and ranks of copper pans and kitchen implements. It led through to the main kitchens and thence into the main part of the house.

  Wilde searched the house from top to bottom. When he first came here it had been full of guests and servants, chatter and music. Now it was empty and silent, save for his footsteps and the sound of his breathing. The door to Clarissa’s room was closed. He turned the handle and hesitated, suddenly unwilling to face his own dishonour. But in he went, unable to rid his mind of the vivid image of her nakedness.

  Her clothes were still in the wardrobes. Though the occupants of this house had been busy during the night they had had too little time to pack everything. Why should Clarissa Lancing care whether she ever saw these gowns and silks again? There were always plenty more to be had.

  He searched the rooms one by one, all the time expecting to be disturbed by the arrival of visitors or servants. But no one came. Most of his time was spent in Milt Hardiman’s study, hunting for papers. But all that remained were household accounts and shelves full of old books. The only thing of note he discovered was a handwritten note on a pad by the telephone: Queen Mary, Southampton. Would the Hardimans really be welcome back in America? Wilde would call Jim Vanderberg; perhaps he’d be able to organise an FBI or police welcoming party for them. Whether he would manage to provide any evidence to hold them was another matter.

  From the house, he rode the Rudge over to the outhouses. He saw signs of digging at the edge of the woods – the dog’s grave, perhaps? In the barn, where the lights had been and where he had heard talking, he saw nothing at first. Some old farm equipment. Behind a handcart he found something that Eaton and Northgate had apparently missed – an ancient iron gas canister that looked as though it had been left over from the war. He sniffed at it. It smelt of rust and onions. Was this where they had held and killed Paul Birbach? If the idea had been simply to terrify him, it had worked too well.

  There was nothing else for him here. He needed to get back to Cambridge to catch up with Lydia and Guy Rowlands. He wanted to check that the Cavendish had been properly cleared. He also wanted to know what was in the bottles.

  *

  As he headed back on the main road, a car came towards him, a battered black Ford Ten: nothing special. As it came nearer he narrowed his eyes. He had seen plenty of Ford Tens, but one particular one emerged from the depths of his memory; at the time it had meant nothing to him, parked in the modest confines of Swaffham Lane in Cambridge.

  He studied it now with interest. The woman at the wheel wore heavy framed glasses. She was familiar, though he had not seen her in spectacles before. The three child passengers – one in the front passenger seat, the two smaller ones in the back, their hair slicked back rather than tousled – rang a bell, too. Well, well, Fanny Winch and her brood. He saw them, but they wouldn’t have recognised him, not in his riding goggles.

  A little way up the road, on a clear stretch, Wilde turned the motorbike around and began to follow them.

  *

  Geoff Lancing kept the Spitfire low. No more than five hundred feet. Cruising speed of two hundred and fifty miles per hour on a bearing of south-south-west. The Spit loved it up here. This was her natural element.

  He knew his sister would cross the channel at St Margaret’s Bay, a mere hundred miles from Duxford, and he knew that she would not be able to cruise at much more than a hundred miles per hour in the de Havilland Hornet Moth and was unlikely to fly at more than three thousand feet. He had flown the little two-seater himself, so he knew its range, its speed and its limitations.

  Given that she had a head start of about twenty-five minutes, he reckoned that, if he was right in his deductions, he would catch up with her as she flew over the White Cliffs. If he was wrong, he would never find her.

  His eyes scanned the horizon all the way south. He would never see her if she were below him, camouflaged against the Kent countryside with its patchwork of hop fields, orchards and oast houses. And so he kept low, skimming the fields, looking ahead of him and up. And then, suddenly, three miles ahead, and a couple of thousand feet above him, he saw a moving dot. Within half a mile, he knew he had been right.

  She wanted to cross the cliffs at the exact spot where she had pushed Nanny Tobin to her death. Just as she had when flying Wilde to Paris. She couldn’t resist the scene of her crime.

  Lancing throttled back to a hundred and twenty and gained height. She wouldn’t see him, of course. Only combat pilots searched the skies behind them. This was slow for the Spit, but Wilde knew her well enough to prevent her stalling. With his right hand on the stick, he pulled back the hood and felt a cool swirl of air on his face. Then he returned his left hand to the stick and took the pistol from his pocket with his right. Fittingly, perhaps, it was a German-made Luger, the weapon Tom Wilde had taken from the guard he overpowered at Boldbourne. A nice accurate weapon – and accuracy was necessary if th
is was to work. It was fully loaded, eight rounds in a box magazine. He flicked off the safety. He was good with handguns.

  He estimated her at two thousand feet. Cutting his speed hard, he climbed as slowly as he could. He would have to be close, very close. Gripping both the Luger and the stick, he pulled into a gentle climb, all the while throttling back with his left hand. He switched stick hands; it was a complicated manoeuvre, but he was a very good flier. His right index finger was feathering the trigger. He was ready. He let out the throttle a fraction and moved slowly towards the Hornet Moth, no more than thirty feet behind her, no more than twenty feet below.

  They were well past the cliffs now, over the sea. In the distance, he saw ferries – one heading for England, one heading for France. He saw tankers and cargo ships, too. Trawlers and yachts. The Channel, as always, was alive with vessels.

  The pilot and her passenger would never know he was there. Only at the last moment might they hear him above the din of their own engine and prop, but by then it would be too late. They were at the front of the little cabin, just above the fixed wheels of the undercarriage. The soft underbelly of the beast.

  The Spitfire was directly below the Hornet Moth, flying at the same speed. He teased the Spit a fraction higher. He was dangerously close – no more than twelve feet below the cabin where his sister and Dexter Flood sat, blissfully unaware. He stretched his right hand, his gun hand, out straight above him, into the rush of wind above the screen. His breathing was short, his pulse racing. He felt sick at what he was about to do. He aimed a fraction forward, then pulled the trigger.

  And again, and again. He emptied the magazine, left and right, varied placement to increase the chances of a hit.

  The magazine spent, he let out the throttle hard with his left hand and returned his gun hand to the stick, thrusting it forward and down, away from the Hornet Moth. Once away from the other plane, he pulled back and began to rise steeply, a thousand, two thousand feet and climbing.

  For half a minute, the Hornet Moth droned on below him as though nothing had happened, then it wobbled, its nose turned down and it veered sharply to starboard, spinning. There was no smoke, no sign of damage to the aircraft itself. Its nose was vertical by the time it plunged into the sea.