A Matter of Loyalty

by Anselm Audley

  ‘Did he have any office-mates, immediate colleagues?’

  ‘Only Dr Wood, he’s a New Zealander from Auckland. Rather younger than Dr Rothesay. Served in the New Zealand Navy during the war – fought at the River Plate, in fact. Took his doctorate at Manchester when it was all over, came straight here. Very practical turn of mind, he and Rothesay were due to be working together for the next couple of months, but that’s been delayed. He went home before Christmas. Father on his deathbed. I pulled some official strings to put him on a military flight, he wouldn’t have got there in time otherwise.’

  That took Wood right out of the picture, at least for Rothesay’s murder. Hugo knew Jarrett would want to confirm Wood’s presence in New Zealand, though.

  Oldcastle ran through a list of other staff, none of whom seemed to have worked particularly closely with Rothesay of late. There was a smattering of Danes, Germans, Canadians, Eastern Europeans. ‘We’re a very international outfit here,’ said Oldcastle proudly.

  Jarrett looked as if he’d swallowed a wasp. Very international was Special Branch’s idea of a nightmare. As for Los Alamos, those who’d been there were in a category all their own, like Cambridge men.

  ‘How long had you known Dr Rothesay?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘We go back a long way, before Los Alamos.’

  ‘Were you friends?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we were friends. Dr Rothesay didn’t have close friendships with his colleagues, particularly not in the last few years. I believe he had one or two colleagues at Oxford with whom he was close. He was, as I said, prickly, rather prone to taking offence.’

  ‘But he’d worked with you the whole time?’

  ‘More or less. When he was assigned to work in my team at Los Alamos, I found his ideas very fruitful indeed. I tried as best I could to give him opportunities to show his capabilities. He was my first pick when I was appointed to head a team at Ulfsgill, and I made sure he was transferred here with me, to a position perhaps better suited to his talents. He was rather out of his depth in the more applied environment of Ulfsgill, got himself involved in a serious accident.’

  Hugo had noticed that in Rothesay’s file. There had been what the scientists referred to as a serious ‘criticality incident’ at the Ulfsgill facility while Rothesay was working there. A scientist had died from radiation exposure – a sobering reminder of the forces these men were working with.

  ‘How much information did he have access to?’

  ‘I should say anything the division did, and a fair bit of the work the other divisions were doing, if need be.’

  ‘Don’t you have security procedures for that sort of thing? Barriers between divisions, as recommended by Ministry instructions?’

  ‘If we did, Inspector, we’d be trailing the Swedes in the atomic stakes, let alone the Russians. Of course, I tried to ensure that no one had access to too much, but as one of our top theoreticians, Dr Rothesay’s work naturally affected all of us. He was often given access to experimental reports where his theories had been put to the test, to refine his calculations for the next stage of experiments.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jarrett. ‘Let’s go through this in order, then. When did you last see Dr Rothesay?’

  Scene 4

  Freya was in her tower, deep in another Edmund Crispin. She had turned her chair to face one of the windows, partly to catch the wan sunlight and partly so as not to have to look at her typewriter. A blank sheet of paper sat accusingly in the feed, gathering dust.

  She looked up at the sound of a car crunching on the gravel. It came to a halt by the doorway. A door banged, then someone rapped on the heavy Castle knocker.

  Curious, she put the book down and went over to the window, peering down through the thick leaded glass. It was Sir Bernard’s Rover. Ben’s voice came up.

  ‘Sir Bernard. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Is the Earl at home?’

  ‘Why yes, but he’s in Lady Matilda’s wing now. Let me show you the way.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Sir Bernard.

  Their voices died away. Puzzled, Freya returned to her book.

  Scene 5

  Gus was wrestling with a line of Virgil when he heard footsteps outside, a gentle rap on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ben, with Hugo’s chief Sir Bernard in tow.

  ‘Beg your pardon for interrupting, sir, but Sir Bernard is here to see you.’

  Gus pushed his chair back. ‘Of course, come in. Take a seat. Can I get you something?’

  ‘No, thank you. On duty.’

  Ben shut the door, his footsteps receding.

  Sir Bernard looked around the big, panelled room Gus had chosen as his study. It tended a little to sombre Victorian Gothic, like the rest of Lady Matilda’s wing, but had a big, sunny bay window and a view out across the gardens. The one thing it lacked was books. Gus’s library was still in New England, being packed up to join him in his new life.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sir Bernard?’

  Sir Bernard shifted in his chair, a little uneasily. ‘Come to ask you a favour. Rather a big one, at short notice.’

  Six months ago, the idea that senior members of the British intelligence service would have been asking him for favours – and feeling awkward about it – would have seemed quite absurd.

  ‘I’ll help if I can,’ said Gus.

  Sir Bernard crossed his legs and folded his hands, like a man sitting for a portrait. ‘We have a defector. Hungarian scientist chap. Came over about six months ago, just before things started to thaw there, although God knows if that’ll last. Been debriefing him at one of our other sites, but headquarters wants him to spend time with one of our people here. We need somewhere to put him up that’s quiet and out of the way, and I thought you might be able to help. He’s had rather a rough time of it, and a few days somewhere like this would do him a lot of good.’

  ‘Is there any danger to my family?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Even if the Soviets found him, they wouldn’t bother coming after him this late in the day. They’ll assume he’s told us everything he’s going to.’

  Gus considered this. ‘But he hasn’t, if you’d like him to spend time with another of your officers.’

  Sir Bernard looked almost embarrassed. ‘A great deal of the initial debriefing was done by people who were, perhaps, not sufficiently acquainted with the intricacies of his field. We have someone here who’s done a lot of work on it recently, for another case.’

  In other words, thought Gus, they were trying to get themselves out of a muddle.

  ‘I’d be happy to help, Sir Bernard, but it seems to me that Selchester isn’t the easiest place to keep a secret. There doesn’t seem to be a man, woman or child in the town who doesn’t know what your establishment is really up to, and right now the place is swarming with newshounds after a trace of this scientist.’

  Sir Bernard gave a small but definite sigh. ‘I did suggest to my superiors that it might be wise to wait a few days. But no, London proposes, and we must dispose. The decision has been made, the personnel assigned, and we must make the best we can of it.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re willing to lodge your defector with an American.’

  ‘Well, you’re not an American any more,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘Peer of the realm, although I suppose the formalities are still under way there?’

  ‘They are indeed. Quite a process.’ He’d been up to the House of Lords to see one of the heralds only last week. It had been like stepping back into the nineteenth century. Or the twelfth.

  ‘So I imagine. No, ah, problem with changing your nationality? I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.’

  ‘It was easier than I thought it would be. Given the circumstances.’ He’d been expecting it to drag on for years, but so far it was all going smoothly. Political pressure on the relevant departments, he reckoned. A murdered earl was embarrassment enough for the Government.

  ‘As I expected. Doesn’t do
to have an earl caught in that kind of limbo, could lead to all sorts of complications. Your solicitors are a sound lot, though, they’ll be on top of it all. Excellent chaps. Know a couple of the partners from my club.’

  Sir Bernard seemed to have run out of Establishment small talk, so Gus returned to the original subject. ‘When would this be?’

  ‘When? Ah, of course. Well. We’d like to drive him down this evening, arrive after dark, if that’s acceptable to you. He’d be here for a week, perhaps two. He’s indicated he’d like to go to America in the end, and they seem willing to have him. Colleagues there, you see. I thought he might find you interesting company.’

  ‘I see. And what do we tell Mrs Partridge and the Selchester rumour mill, when a Hungarian scientist turns up in the middle of the night? I can hardly pretend he’s my long-lost cousin, we’ve had quite enough of that sort of thing already.’

  Sir Bernard fingered his moustache.

  ‘One of my London colleagues had a suggestion. Seems our fellow is well read, knows his Latin and Greek. Not like some of our chaps, can’t tell a hexameter from a handsaw.’ He seemed rather pleased with his alliteration. ‘We’d like to pass him off as a classicist. Émigré, fleeing Uncle Joe’s thought police, standing up for Western civilisation and so on. Where better for him to take refuge than with a fellow Greats man? Although I suppose you don’t call it Greats on your side of the pond.’

  ‘Thorn Hall is officially a Government statistics office,’ Gus pointed out. ‘An odd place for a classicist to spend his working days.’

  This point did not please Sir Bernard, perhaps because his superiors hadn’t considered it. Gus didn’t have much experience with Sir Bernard’s American counterparts, but he could spot a career administrator when he saw one. ‘They all know what we’re up to at Thorn Hall, however much we’d wish it were otherwise. Perfectly natural for us to be interested in him.’

  This was an unexpectedly candid admission from Sir Bernard. Gus paused for a moment, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. For his own part, he was more than happy to offer temporary refuge for a man without country or home, fugitive from a monstrous tyranny. As father of two daughters recently caught up in a murder investigation, he was a little more cautious. True, Babs was away at art school, returning to the Castle only during the holidays, but that left Polly even more exposed. He trusted Freya and Mrs Partridge implicitly, and there was Georgia, but it was still all very new and unfamiliar.

  ‘If you can give your word there’s no threat to my daughter,’ he said at last, ‘you have my permission.’

  ‘You have it,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘I’m a father myself. Sons, in my case, but a man has his duties.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Gus.

  Sir Bernard uncrossed his legs. ‘Thank you, Lord Selchester. Much appreciated. I’ll let London know. I imagine you can expect him this evening, around nine. Best not to entrust anything to the telephone, I think.’

  Gus walked Sir Bernard back to his car in the pale sunshine. Ben had turned it around, but was nowhere to be seen. Sir Bernard gazed appreciatively over the lawn and the ruined walls towards Thorn Hall, across the valley.

  ‘I take it I can tell Mr Hawksworth and Miss Wryton about this,’ Gus said.

  ‘Of course. I’ll have Hawksworth fill you in on his background.’

  ‘Can you tell me his name?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’d better know it now you’ve agreed. Dr Árpád Bárándy. Well, Lord Selchester, you have the thanks of the Service, and the gratitude of your adopted country. Sorry to have sprung this on you so suddenly. I’d like to have done it properly, but as I said, London was adamant. If there’s anything I can do to return the favour, do let me know.’

  They shook hands, as one English gentleman to another, and Sir Bernard drove off. Gus let out a long, deep breath, and tried to imagine the FBI or CIA allowing a defector to lodge with a visiting Brit who’d just inherited an oil fortune or some such. Quite unthinkable.

  He headed for the door. Time to find Mrs Partridge.

  Scene 6

  Dr Edward Vane was a thin, correct man with a severe expression, like an old-fashioned schoolmaster. He had his own office next to Oldcastle, a neat desk with everything in lines, rows of periodicals on shelves in the corner.

  His view of his colleagues was rather dim. Or perhaps it was fairer to say he was more alert to their faults than their virtues, particularly if those faults were in some way disorderly. Dr Wood, the New Zealander, was far too casual, prone to call people by their first names, as apparently was the way at home. Thorogood, the materials man, liked to work late and sleep late.

  ‘And Dr Rothesay?’ Jarrett asked. His eyes were alight, no sign of boredom. ‘What did you think of him?’

  Not When did you last see Dr Rothesay? Hugo noted.

  ‘There was very little order to his thoughts, for a man in his profession. Perhaps if he had been better able to discipline his mind, he might have achieved a rather greater scientific eminence than he did. As for his personal conduct outside work, it was nothing short of scandalous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he had affairs, Inspector. With married women.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘I did not enquire, and he did not tell me. They came and they went. Sometimes they came back. I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Did any of them ever come to Foxley?’

  ‘I should think not. Brigadier Caundle is most punctilious about security, and I can’t imagine his men would ever have allowed Dr Rothesay to bring his various mistresses to a secure installation. Nor can I believe he would have wanted to do so.’

  Hugo wondered idly whether Dr Vane were the sort of man who would secretly have liked to have mistresses of his own (plural, of course) and couldn’t forgive Dr Rothesay for being a man who did. Then again, mistresses were apparently considered disorderly, so perhaps not.

  ‘Do you think he discussed his work with them?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. It was difficult enough to get him to discuss his work when he was meant to be doing it. He considered himself a man of high culture and wide interests. He liked to talk about them during his breaks. Dr Oldcastle has always tried to encourage a culture of scientific discussion among his staff, as he believes great things can come of apparently casual conversations. Dr Rothesay’s attitude was not conducive to such discussion.’

  Here was a man who had no trouble speaking ill of the dead.

  ‘How was the quality of his work?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘He had a first-rate mind,’ said Vane grudgingly, ‘which he employed at a fraction of its capacity. I was pleased to see, since we moved here, that he was paying more attention to his work, coming in earlier and leaving later.’

  Jarrett was on that like a shot. ‘You mean he was here at times when few others would have been?’

  ‘I like the staff to keep regular hours where possible, between nine and six. There are, as I said, certain members of staff who prefer a more irregular pattern, despite attempts to discourage them’ – Thorogood the materials man, no doubt – ‘but Dr Rothesay’s habit had become to arrive early and leave late. I must admit, the quality of his output had improved.’

  Hugo could all too easily imagine Dr Vane behind a desk on the other side of the Iron Curtain, forever hassling his staff over the minutiae of factory production targets and steel quotas.

  ‘Would he be here alone?’ Jarrett asked, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  ‘Sometimes. At the end of the day, though, every member of staff is required to lock all their materials away and take the key to Reception, where it is in turn locked away for the night. The night-duty guards are unable to access the keys.’

  Jarrett clearly approved of this. ‘Good procedure.’

  Hugo asked, ‘Could you put a more exact date on when his behaviour changed?’

  Vane began to tap his fingers against one another. ‘I would say that it changed around th
e time we arrived at Foxley.’

  Hugo flipped through his own shorthand notes, rather less copious than Jarrett’s. A field agent had to have a good memory; it was dangerous to commit things to writing.

  ‘This was about a year ago, then.’

  ‘We moved here at the beginning of December 1952.’

  ‘And do you know of any reasons why Dr Rothesay might have become more dedicated to his work?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘I was not in Dr Rothesay’s confidence.’

  ‘Indulge me with some speculation.’

  Dr Vane said nothing for a long time. Jarrett’s thumb began to twitch.

  ‘I should say that he had begun to see the error of his ways, perhaps after he had such a close call at Ulfsgill. To be a first-class scientist, it’s not enough to rely on intuition and hunches. It takes careful, sustained work. Dr Rothesay had rarely exerted himself to the limit of his abilities, and time was beginning to catch up with him. Perhaps if he had bestirred himself earlier, he might have left a more fitting scientific legacy. It’s a tragedy that he didn’t.’

  Scene 7

  Knowing full well that Jarrett would be away at the Atomic all day, Freya had taken herself into town while the coast was clear. She’d go to the bookshop, she decided, seek out some worthy tome on Restoration England or the Sun King’s France and see what gems it yielded. That at least would be research.

  The Selchester Bookshop was dimly lit, its smell familiar and comfortable. Dinah, in her favourite crimson sweater and much-darned trousers, was in a chatty mood.

  ‘Busy this morning,’ she said. ‘All the ladies who lunch are at the Daffodils. Body in the river and all. How’s Georgia?’

  Freya had heard about the body. Inevitably, it had been Mrs Partridge who had brought the news.

  ‘They’ve found that scientist,’ she’d said as Freya passed through the kitchen. ‘In the river. I heard as it was Miss Polly and Miss Georgia as spotted the body on their way in to school.’

  Freya stopped. ‘Dead? Georgia saw it?’