Autumn in Oxford: A Novel

by Alex Rosenberg

  Before the uniformed man could express his outrage at the train’s delay, Bennett raised his hand to show his CID badge. “Very sorry. Let’s get on this train, and I’ll explain.”

  Comfortably seated in a first-class compartment of the now rapidly moving train, Bennett removed the handcuffs. “I’m sorry, Miss . . . Mrs. Spencer. I only did that for dramatic effect. We had to get them to delay the departure for us. Handcuffs usually make bystanders think matters are serious.” He put them in a side coat pocket.

  Liz actually found the ability to smile. “I can hardly complain. Your arrival saved me from a more serious fate.”

  Watkins addressed her. “Do you know who those men were?”

  But before Liz could answer, Bennett spoke. “Mrs. Elizabeth Spencer, I am arresting you as an accessory after the fact in the murder of your husband, Trevor Spencer. You have a right to remain silent, but anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.” Then Bennett visibly relaxed, took out a packet of Player’s, and offered them to Watkins and to Liz.

  Looking at the sign on the window, Liz observed, “This is nonsmoking.”

  “Not for us, ma’am.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and took one of his Player’s. It was going to be too strong, she knew, even before she began to cough. “You’re arresting me,” she said when she’d stopped. “But you saw those two men. They were going to kill me.” As she thought about the matter, Liz’s voice turned angry. How could these detectives be so thick? “They’re the ones who murdered my husband. How can you arrest me after you just saved me from them?”

  Bennett pushed his hat back and drew on his fag. “Look, Mrs. Spencer, I’m glad we were able to rescue you from an assault or worse. But I’m afraid it changes nothing regarding our duties.”

  “Those two men were dragging me away, were going to kill me, and it changes nothing?”

  Watkins tried to sound reasonable. “We don’t know what they were doing or why, Mrs. Spencer.”

  “They had guns, Detective. I saw one and could feel the other.” This seemed to make an impression. The two policemen exchanged glances. But then they fell silent, perhaps sheepish about what they had to do.

  In the silence Liz began asking herself, What are they waiting for? Aren’t they going to question me? Are we going to ride all the way to London in silence? This is just what Alice said happened to Tom. No interrogation, no chance for Tom to speak. I’ve got to do something. “Detective Bennett, you said I have the right to remain silent. Do I have the right to talk?”

  “Yes, but I advise you to wait until you have the benefit of a solicitor.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Watkins now made a show of taking a notepad and a pen from his jacket. They were certainly going to take down anything she did say.

  Where to begin? Liz wondered. They just don’t seem interested in anything about those men except for the fact that they were armed. She began, “Why were you on that platform? Because you were coming to Manchester for me, right?” The detectives remained impassive. “And so were those two men who were trying to take me off the platform. Do you think that was a coincidence?” Now she became emphatic, staring at each. “Two different pairs of men both after me at the same time? Like the coincidence of Tom Wrought being on the platform the moment my husband died?” Still nothing. Liz was close to tears of frustration and anger. “You never interrogated Tom Wrought, not once, never asked him anything. And now you’re going to treat me the same way? A suspect has the right to remain silent. Don’t they have a right to answer questions? Aren’t you interested?”

  The men across the compartment from her were literally looking at their shoes. But shaming them was not going to be enough.

  Why aren’t they interested, Liz? Because they think they already know everything. Perhaps if you show them what you know?

  “You’re holding me as an accessory after murder, right?” They nodded. At least you got a couple of nods. “You hadn’t detained me before now. But then you received new information, didn’t you?” Silence. “Someone told you I was in London when my husband died, that I was meeting Tom at a hotel, maybe even that he called me from a phone box near the scene of the crime, warning me to return to Oxford.”

  Now Bennett spoke. “Do you deny it?”

  “No. Do you deny receiving this information in the last day or so without having done any police legwork to get it? Without even visiting the hotel or asking the desk clerk there about it?”

  Watkins looked at his governor, who nodded permission to speak. “You were going to meet him there. You should have come forwards with this information when first questioned.”

  She ignored the question. Instead, she continued her argument. “But then, just a day ago, you got this anonymous tip, yes?” No sarcasm, Liz. You need these people to believe you. It’s your only chance . . . and Tom’s. Could she show them they were being manipulated, being treated as mere marionettes on strings? Slow down, Liz. Build your case the way Alice would.

  She turned towards the senior policeman. “Detective Bennett, has it occurred to you how little actual police work you and Watkins here have had to do in order to seal up this case so convincingly?”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Spencer?” Watkins asked.

  “Well, you had Tom Wrought in jail within twenty-four hours of the crime. You had witnesses, motive, evidence, all without even lifting a finger. Everything served up to you on a plate. Now you get another piece of evidence. Doubtless you’ve since confirmed it with the Gresham Hotel. But how did you learn of the call in the first place? Painstaking police work?”

  Bennett spoke. “But you do admit that Wrought left a message for you that day?”

  “Yes.” Liz replied. At least you have him questioning you now.

  Watkins asked, “What do you mean, we had everything handed to us on a plate?” They both knew perfectly well that she was right. Everything had come from anonymous tips, and everything had been confirmed by their initial enquiries.

  “Someone killed my husband and framed Tom Wrought for it. Whoever did it organized the killing so that Tom would be on the platform when they pushed Trevor onto the tracks. Then they fed you all the information you needed to make the arrest. You passed it on to the crown prosecutor and remanded Tom Wrought. The police never got so many accurate tips so quickly before, right?”

  Watkins looked at Bennett, who responded, “Well, however we got the information, it checked out. And now you’ve confirmed the tip that you were going to meet him at the Gresham.”

  “Gentlemen, I am going to tell you everything I know.” Careful, Liz, you can’t tell them everything . . . .you can’t tell them about the Krogers and Feklisov. You can’t tell them anything about that. But what if it’s not enough without them? It will have to be if you want to survive, if you want Tom to survive . . . and Alice. “I think I can convince you that Tom Wrought has been framed. You’ve been used by the people who framed him. And you, me, Tom Wrought, we’ve gotten ourselves wrapped up in matters of national security, espionage, and worse. There’s a foreign government interfering with the work of the police.”

  “That’s quite a speech, Mrs. Spencer,” Bennett said. He looked at Watkins, who said nothing. Liz took their silence as willingness to listen.

  How far back to go, how much to tell? What can’t I tell? She thought a moment, and began. “People in the American FBI and in the Russian KGB both suspect that Tom Wrought knows something, knows that they’ve been working together. The FBI and the KGB are both working against the American CIA, and maybe against British intelligence.”

  “That makes no sense.” Bennett expressed annoyance. “Why would the American FBI be working with the Russians against their own CIA?”

  Watkins added a question: “Why would they be working here against us?”

  “It’s not the whole FBI. We think—Tom’s solicitor and me—that it’s the director, J. Edgar Hoover. He’s been trying to get control of the CIA
for years. He was willing to do anything, even compromise CIA networks, just to show the CIA is incompetent so he could take it over.”

  “And how does Tom Wrought figure into all of this, please?” Bennett was humouring her, and Watkins was taking notes.

  “Tom must have twigged to Hoover’s actions. He worked for the CIA ten years ago. Then this fall he foolishly hinted at inside knowledge about the FBI and the CIA in some newspaper articles. That’s what started the whole thing.”

  “So, why kill Trevor Spencer?”

  That was an obvious question, but was it mere curiosity, or was Bennett starting to take Liz’s story seriously? She couldn’t tell.

  “They knew Tom Wrought and I were lovers, because they had Tom under surveillance.” She looked at their faces, remembering how she’d answered their questions the night the two detectives told her of Trevor’s death. “They had the resources to start to follow my husband, Trevor, too. That’s why they were able to kill Trevor and frame Tom. All they needed was some way to get you looking in the direction they wanted you to look. And you did.”

  “See here, we had solid physical evidence against Wrought, evidence no one could have manufactured—the divorce attorney’s card, the prophylactic wrapper—and witnesses at the tube stop.” Bennett again sounded completely unconvinced by Liz’s story.

  “But you would never have had Tom Wrought without a tip, one that came only hours after the crime. Without it you’d still be looking for a husband that Trevor Spencer was cuckolding.” Liz was guessing now, but she had to take the chance.

  Watkins broke in, asking the obvious question again. “Why kill your husband? Why not just kill Wrought?”

  “Tom Wrought was ‘establishment.’ People knew him, influential people. There would have been questions, perhaps even questions in Parliament. Lots more than if a middle-aged husband was killed by his wife’s lover who happened to be well connected.” The thought immediately occurred to Liz, If it had been Tom they killed, you lot might have worked hard enough to uncover the fact that Tom had run into both Krogers. Then you would have unravelled the Russian spy network. It was not a thought to pursue.

  “I’m sorry; you’ve no evidence to back up this story, Mrs. Spencer.” Bennett’s tone was not really regretful.

  Liz persisted. “Weren’t you surprised that there was nothing in the papers about my husband’s death? That no one on Fleet Street cared about the arrest of a prize-winning Oxford don? You weren’t even approached by a reporter from the tabloids for details about a lurid love triangle, were you? No one wanted a scoop. Wasn’t that odd?” Silence from the coppers. “Why?” She answered her own question. “Someone powerful wanted the whole matter to go unnoticed.” Again she asked, “Why? Could they have had some connection to whoever was feeding you all the evidence you needed?” Still nothing. She had to find something that would shake them up. “After you arrested Tom, his solicitor and I started working to try to figure out who framed him. And we must have struck pay dirt—found out why he was framed.”

  “Why is that?” “How do you know?” Bennett and Watkins spoke at the same time.

  “Because suddenly you were sent after me. You didn’t arrest me when you took Wrought in. You had them take my passport, that’s all. Why the sudden interest now? Because we’re on to the people who framed Tom Wrought. They gave you the tip about Tom’s call to the Gresham Hotel. It’s why those men came to Manchester for me.” Watkins and Bennett exchanged glances, Liz noticed.

  “This is preposterous, Mrs. Spencer,” said Bennett. “If someone is manipulating us, why would they have sent two men up here to grab you when they knew Watkins and me was comin’ up here to arrest you?” It didn’t come out of his mouth as a question.

  Liz, if you can answer that question, you’ll have turned them to our side. “No, Inspector, it’s the best evidence my theory is right! The FBI and maybe the Russians as well have been using the British security service in a war against the American CIA. They have the same mole in MI5. He found out some of what Alice Silverstone and I know about why Tom was framed. The mole had to protect himself. He had to take me out of circulation. So he told his FBI contact, and they gave him the tape to pass on to you. Then, without telling their mole in MI5, Hoover’s people in London decided to send those goons out to get rid of me, probably the same ones that killed my husband. That’s why they were carrying guns. They’re Americans.”

  Bennett looked exasperated. “So, what exactly did Wrought know that made the FBI want to silence him?”

  Watkins added, “And British intelligence, how is it involved?”

  “I can answer both of those questions, gentlemen.” Liz smiled with relief. Do you have them on your side now? “First, at least once—eight years ago—British intelligence passed on vital information to Hoover’s FBI that they were to give to the CIA. But the FBI withheld it, and it cost the Americans several agents in Russia. This autumn Tom figured out it was Hoover himself who betrayed the CIA.” She could only hope they didn’t ask her to prove this accusation. Liz went on quickly, “Second, we suspect Hoover might know that his mole in MI5 is a Russian agent too. Hoover probably knew at least one Soviet agent in our Washington embassy. Do you remember the name Guy Burgess?”

  Watkins shook his head. But Bennett replied, “Burgess, yes—Burgess and McLean? The two traitors who escaped in ’51?” He turned to Watkins. “Total cock-up.” Then he looked towards Liz. “And what makes you think Hoover knew this man, Burgess?”

  “Well, Burgess was a homosexual and had a sexual relationship with someone Hoover knew—shall we say, someone Hoover knew well.”

  “That’s true,” Bennett said to Watkins. “He was a queer, that Burgess.” Then he looked at Liz. “But the public didn’t know.” He turned back to Liz. “Is there more, Mrs. Spencer?”

  “Yes. Two days ago Tom’s solicitor and I were taken to see the head of MI5, Roger Hollis. His people had been following us. We told him what we knew, and he told us he’d look into the matter.”

  Bennett looked perplexed. “You know the name of the head of MI5? That’s a violation of the Official Secrets Act. Who told you?”

  Liz lied. “He did.”

  But Bennett wasn’t listening. “You spoke with Sir Roger himself two days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, yesterday a spool of tape turned up on my desk from MI5. It was a recording of Tom Wrought’s call to the Gresham Hotel, telling you to go home. That’s why I decided we needed to pick you up as soon as possible.” He stopped.

  “Isn’t it obvious where Hollis got that bit of tape? From the Americans. He couldn’t have been bugging the hotel where we met. MI5 didn’t know anything about Tom and me last January. Only the FBI did. You two have been acting on tips from them fed through Hollis.” Suddenly Liz felt she was talking to people who might believe her after all.

  Watkins interjected, “We were told right from the start that this case had an MI5 Official Secrets Act lid on it. We were ready to stonewall the press.” He paused. “But there was never any need. No one asked.”

  “There was no reason to question Wrought or even seek a confession,” Bennett reflected. “Motive, opportunity, means—they were handed to us in neat packages and anonymous tips that all checked out. Add in the eyewitnesses locating Wrought on the platform running from the scene of the crime, and it was open and shut.”

  “Of course it was open and shut,” Liz agreed. “The FBI had a whole team working on this in London, in Oxford, following Tom, following my husband, Trevor, tapping the Gresham Hotel phone, keeping the tabloid reporters tame.” Now could she convince them of the final piece of the story? “Do you see? Roger Hollis is an FBI mole in MI5 and a Soviet double agent too. Carrying information back and forth between the Russians and Hoover’s FBI in their war against the CIA.”

  Bennett pushed his head back, lit another cigarette, and blew a long shaft of smoke into the ceiling of the compartment. “Why should we believe you, Mrs. Spencer, an
d not the head of MI5, if he is our anonymous source? What if you’re the Soviet agent, along with Wrought?”

  Think fast, Liz. You can give them the Krogers. That would convince them. But you can’t. It would be the end of all of us—Tom, Alice, me. Feklisov was very clear. Do you have anything else to give them?

  She looked at Watkins and then Bennett. “Would a Soviet spy write articles in the papers drawing attention to inside information? That’s what Tom Wrought did. If I were one too, would I blow my cover by involvement in a murder—of my husband, no less?” All the while there was quite a different thought running through Liz’s mind. You practically are a spy, Liz, or as close to being one as makes no difference. You won’t give away the Russian agents you and Alice have uncovered. She answered her own challenge. I can’t. Not if we’re to survive. “There is one more thing, Detective Bennett, that should make you angry about how you’ve been used by a foreign government.”

  “What’s that then?” Bennett sounded almost avid.

  “Someone has been reaching into Brixton Prison, either paying off the warders to spy on Tom Wrought or spying on him themselves. His personal effects have been searched when he leaves his cell. And they have tried to break into his solicitor’s offices to secure documents. Alice Silverstone can give you the details.”

  “We don’t do that sort of thing, Mrs. Spencer, not the CID!”

  “I’m not accusing you. It’s more evidence that someone with resources and power is interfering with British law. I think only Americans or Russians would try things like that, and only Americans would succeed.”

  “What exactly are we supposed to do with this information?” Bennett had surrendered to Liz’s logic in spite of himself. But now he seemed at a loss.

  “I’m not sure, Inspector. But to start, I think when we get to London, you had better take me off the train in handcuffs, just to discourage another attempt on my life.”