by Sam Bourne
‘Why don’t you sit down, Dr Zennor?’
‘I will sit down when someone tells me what the hell is going on here.’
‘Barbara,’ the Dean said, his voice still even, his smile still in place, ‘why don’t I take Dr Zennor into my office where he and I can talk in private. And perhaps you could bring us that coffee.’ He gave his secretary a look which suggested he did not want her wandering too far away, just in case.
James allowed himself to be ushered through the inner door. Wisely, Preston McAndrew did not try to put a hand on his shoulder as he guided him, otherwise the Dean would have been on the receiving end of an English fist.
‘I must tell you, something very strange is afoot in your university, Dr McAndrew. Something very strange indeed.’
‘Please, sit down.’ The Dean pulled his chair out from behind his desk so that he might sit closer to James, as if they were two men in a club drawing room rather than an office. He gestured towards the seat for James, but his gesture was ignored.
‘I have twice been barred from enquiring after my wife and child by staff at this office. On my second visit, the Assistant Dean promises he can help me — only to end up dead that same evening. And now I see that my wife and child’s records are missing from your files. What on earth is going on here?’
‘I can see you’re very exercised-’
‘Don’t talk to me as if I’m some kind of lunatic! I’m quite-’
‘I am not accusing you of being a lunatic, Dr Zennor. But you must appreciate this situation is highly irregular. I find an intruder rifling through my files and he starts putting me in the dock. I think most men in my position would have called the police by now. And from what I hear, I suspect they would be most interested to learn what you’ve been up to.’
That pulled James up short. He suddenly became aware of himself, standing here, shouting in the office of a man he had never met. He thought of what Bernard Grey had said about him: not suitable for sensitive work. Slowly he sat down.
‘Good man,’ said the Dean, who let out a barely audible exhalation of relief. When the secretary knocked on the door with two cups of coffee, he leapt up, apparently grateful for a break in the tension.
Only now did James take a good look at him. He was not at all what he had expected. The title of Dean had planted a picture in his mind of an American version of Grey, white-haired and ancient. But this man looked to be in his mid-forties, no more. He was as tall as James and handsome too, with a full head of dark hair lightly flecked with grey, the touches of silver suggesting distinction rather than old age.
‘Look, the truth is, I blame myself for this situation, I really do,’ he was saying, as he stirred cream into his coffee, a habit that would, James reflected, have seemed like reckless indulgence back home in the land of the ration book. ‘Oxford notified me that you were coming on a fellowship and I really should have made arrangements to meet you. Forgive me for that mistake.’
James said nothing, wondering if this was a deliberate attempt to wrong-foot him. The Dean had not summoned the police; he had not even raised his voice. Disarming an opponent with courtesy was just the sort of trick Grey would pull.
‘Barbara has already filled me in on the history here, as we medics say.’ The hint of a smile was realized, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. ‘And I need to apologize for that too. As you say, you came here to make a perfectly reasonable request for information on your wife and child. Florence and Harry, is that right?’
‘That’s right. The point, Dr McAndrew is-’
‘Preston, please.’ The Dean looked directly into James’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid Barbara and Joan are very good at what they do, but they’re used to guarding the information they have here as if it were the Ark of the Covenant! So, let’s see what we can do.’
‘I hope you agree it is odd. That file contains a complete list of locations for every Oxford mother or child, but there is no record for my family.’
McAndrew held up his hand. ‘I completely agree with you. Something doesn’t add up.’ He rose to retrieve a piece of paper from his desk.
Perhaps, James thought, he had rushed to judgment on this man. McAndrew exuded competence and a degree of sympathy too. And there was surely no one more capable of reuniting him with Florence and Harry. He needed an ally, especially one so well placed.
‘I ought to apologize for resorting to…’ James hesitated. ‘Unorthodox means.’ As he said the words, he thought of his accomplice. He guessed that by now Dorothy had hobbled out of the ladies’ lavatory, leaning on the secretary, only to see the Dean returning to his office — and had then tiptoed away, lest anyone suspect a link between her and James. That would have been the canny thing to do and that girl was nothing if not canny.
‘No need to apologize at all,’ the Dean said, distractedly. He was reading the sheet in front of him, briefly looking up to add, ‘I don’t have kids myself, but if I did I’m sure I’d have done exactly the same thing.’ He suddenly stood up. ‘So let’s go and look at these files, shall we?’
James followed him into the outer office where the secretary, Barbara, was hammering away at a typewriter. She glanced up only briefly, returning her gaze to the machine hurriedly and, to James’s mind, guiltily.
‘So,’ McAndrew said loudly, ‘why don’t you show me where you’d got to?’
‘Well, this is slightly embarrassing.’
‘On the contrary, the embarrassment is all ours.’ The Dean shot a reproving look in Barbara’s direction. ‘Go ahead.’
James walked over to the cabinet containing the ‘Y’ files, pulled open the drawer and, tentatively now, in deference to the fact that he was in another man’s office, thumbed his way through a few of them until he found the one marked ‘Yale Faculty Committee for Receiving Oxford and Cambridge University Children’. He pulled it out and handed it to the Dean who opened it immediately.
‘Well, of course I’m familiar with this document.’ Smiling, he pulled out the letter of invitation he had signed less than two months earlier. ‘As Dean I was charged with issuing our offer on behalf of the university.’
‘I saw that. The relevant papers come later. The list of names.’
Both men stood by the wall of filing cabinets as McAndrew flicked through the pages, eventually stopping where James had asked.
‘The name you’re looking for is Walsingham.’ Noting McAndrew’s quizzical expression, James added, in a quieter voice, ‘my wife’s maiden name.’
A momentary pause and then: ‘There they are!’ The Dean was delighted. ‘Look,’ he handed James the document in triumph.
‘Yes, I’ve seen that Dr McAndrew-’
‘Preston.’
‘But this is my point.’ He could hear the nerves jangling once again in his voice. He wanted to be calm and suave, one accomplished scholar talking to another. He knew that would be more effective. But he could not do it. He desperately wanted to see his family again and desperation is one of the few things impossible to hide. ‘She is on that list — but nowhere else.’
‘So,’ said the Dean, his lips pursed in concentration. ‘This document confirms that Florence and Harry made the crossing successfully from England and that they reached New Haven.’
‘Yes. But when everyone else on that list has an extra sheet, detailing their host family, address-’
‘Yes, yes. Quite so.’
The Dean was holding the bulldog-clipped sheaf, making the same search James had done, furtively, a few minutes earlier. Back and forth he went, drawing the same result. ‘Hmmm,’ he said eventually. Then he turned to his secretary. ‘Barbara, this is most odd,’ he said, explaining the problem and asking her to search all the files thoroughly. ‘If it’s there, Barbara will find it,’ he said, turning back to James. ‘There’s none better!’ He gave her a warm smile and she immediately set to work, crouching down by the ‘Y’ drawer and working her way through it. ‘Why don’t we go back into my office, while we wait to see what mir
acle Barbara produces? There’s something else I’d like to discuss.’
James hesitated. He wanted to stand over the secretary, watch her go through those papers, get down on his knees and sort through the files himself if necessary, rather than talking, talking, talking. The muscles in his back were tense. For over three weeks now he had had that same taut feeling in his body: that every minute not spent searching was a minute wasted. But he forced himself to be polite — and patient.
McAndrew closed his door and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. Whether that was in recognition of the heat, mitigated in this room by the whirr of the ceiling fan, or a cue that they were now having a less formal conversation, James was uncertain. Though when he saw McAndrew head towards a drinks tray in the corner of the room and pour two glasses of Scotch, he concluded it was the latter. And he knew precisely what topic the Dean was about to raise.
‘This is turning into an afternoon of apologies,’ he began, handing James a heavy tumbler of whisky, ‘but I wanted to say how much I regret that you were drawn into this very unfortunate business with the Assistant Dean.’
‘Yes.’ James paused. ‘Very tragic.’
‘Tragic is the right word. The Yale Police Department are zealous — as they should be, of course — and they pounced on you, I’m afraid. When anyone could have told them, as I now have told them, that this was hardly unexpected news.’
‘Oh?’
The Dean looked into his glass. ‘I’m afraid so, yes. A very troubled man, Dr Lund.’ McAndrew hesitated, as if unsure how much he should let on. ‘You’re too young to have served in the last war, but I saw it there too.’
‘Saw what?’
‘Men in the grip of demons, Dr Zennor. Demons. I believe they had been tormenting poor George for some time. Why he latched onto you, I don’t know. Who can know what fantasies rage through such a troubled mind? But I guess he told himself that you had some role in his nightmares.’
James drunk from his glass, tasting what he knew instantly was a malt of the highest quality. He decided to take a risk. ‘And what about Wolf’s Head? The badge in the mouth and all that.’
McAndrew did not react; confirmation that this had not come as news to him. He swirled the liquid in his glass for a moment or two, then smiled. ‘Such a lot of nonsense is spoken about these clubs, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Perhaps Lund didn’t think it was nonsense. He went to some lengths to connect Wolf’s Head with his death.’
‘Is that what the police said?’
‘That’s what I assumed. That his killer had been wearing the pin and Lund managed to tear it from him in the struggle. Shoved it in his mouth, so that the police would find it. You’re not convinced.’
‘Well, I suppose it could be that. If this were the movies, Dr Zennor, the killer would have left the pin there deliberately, as his “calling card”.’ The Dean gave an indulgent smile, the crows’ feet crinkling in the corner of his eyes. ‘But I suspect the truth is much more humdrum than that. More humdrum and infinitely more sad.’
‘And what is the truth?’
‘Lund had a first-class mind, you know. Really one of the best in his class at the Medical School. But it began to unravel. I suppose his past membership of Wolf’s Head went into the stew, along with everything else, including his meeting with you.’
‘So the police told you he was a member?’
The Dean gave another smile, the wistful expression of an older man speaking about a wayward son. ‘The police didn’t need to tell me, Dr Zennor. I already knew.’
‘I thought these clubs were all terribly secret.’
‘Oh, they are. But the members tend to know who’s who.’
James sat back in his chair. ‘So you too, then?’
‘I’m afraid so. It was me who brought George in.’
James took another sip of the whisky, enjoying the warmth of it in his throat. ‘And your view is that Lund took his own life?’
‘I’m certain of it. More than that: I had feared it. For some time now.’
There was a light knock, followed by the appearance of Barbara’s head around the door. ‘Dean McAndrew, I’m afraid I’ve looked. There’s nothing there.’
‘You’ve checked thoroughly?’
‘And checked again, yes, sir.’
Briefly soothed by the alcohol, James had, for a minute or two, allowed himself to forget about the files and the missing information on Florence and Harry. But that made the disappointment now all the heavier. He had been sure the Dean, backed by the full bureaucratic muscle of his office, was about to solve his problem; he had half-expected the secretary to come in waving a piece of paper, telling him she had tracked down the errant Mrs Zennor and that she was living twenty minutes away.
The Dean stood up, placing a consoling arm around James’s shoulder. ‘I know what a letdown this is for you. I also find it very frustrating. But I promise to get to the bottom of this. Would you please let Barbara know how we can be in touch with you? One way or another, we will reunite you with your family — I give you my word.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
James left the administrative building, stepping into the summer evening. His son Harry had once called this ‘the orangey time of day’, when the sun begins to dip, turning the sky pink, crimson and every shade in between. It felt like midnight, such was his exhaustion — from the heat, from the whisky, but above all from the disappointment. Sitting in the office of Preston McAndrew, he had allowed himself to believe that his journey was all but over. Each moment in the Dean’s office had pumped him ever fuller with hope. And now that hope had been punctured.
He always thought of himself as a rational man, a man of science. Faced with any conundrum, he always favoured the explanation that was both simple and supported by evidence. He had no patience for theory, for hypotheticals or speculation. And so, no matter how curious Lund’s behaviour had been, no matter how bizarre his death or connection to the mysterious Wolf’s Head society, James had believed that the true explanation for Harry and Florence’s disappearance would turn out to be straightforward and mundane: a mislaid file, a document that had been filled in incorrectly. There would be apologies, perhaps even laughter at the rotten luck of it all and the whole ordeal would be over. At bottom, that was what James had believed throughout — and wanted to believe still.
But it was becoming harder to hold onto. Lund was dead and all the rational, empirical evidence pointed to murder rather than suicide. Florence and Harry were proving impossible to trace. Again it was now logical, not hysterical or paranoid, to conclude that something had happened to them, even that they could be in serious danger. Lund had been agitated when he made his offer of help, hardly the behaviour of a man aware of a mere administrative mix-up that, once resolved, would reveal Florence’s whereabouts. He had acted as if he were privy to information that was itself dangerous.
James suddenly became aware that he was walking very fast, adrenalin pushing him into a rush he could hardly control. What was more, though it took him another moment to realize it, he had no idea where he was going.
It was as he headed into College Street that he sensed someone behind him. He didn’t turn at first, his training telling him to wait. His brain automatically offered up the options: McAndrew catching up with him, to tell him they had found Florence’s address after all; the men who had killed Lund, now come to kill him; Florence herself. That last thought — however unlikely — made him turn and what he saw made him wonder why he had not considered this possibility first.
‘Hold up, Dr Zennor. Some of us are wearing heels.’
‘Christ, you gave me a start.’ He realized he was panting. ‘How long have you been following me?’
‘And there I was, expecting a nice “Thank you, Miss Lake”.’
James stopped, looked down, then said, ‘I’m sorry. And thank you for doing what you did. But it was no good. They have details for every Oxford family but mine.’
>
‘No! That is disappointing.’ Something in her eyes, clear and blue, suggested a sympathy that was more than merely polite. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Lake.’ He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?’
A thought that had been incubating in James’s mind since he had sat in McAndrew’s office now came to life. It was laden with risk, something he would not consider in normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. ‘Actually, I do know where I would like to go. But I will need your help.’
He had often thought badly of himself in recent years, especially when regarding his damaged body. His opinion of his own worth had sunk low. But he had never felt what he felt now. He had never despised himself.
Standing here, on the doorstep of a small, colonial house on Church Street, his hand hovering by the brass knocker, he felt contempt for what he was about to do. For this was the home of Margaret Lund, a woman who had become a widow that morning. To intrude on such a person was appalling in itself; to do so with a reporter in tow was vile. And yet here he was.
When he had mentioned the idea to Dorothy Lake, he had half-hoped she would talk him out of it, tell him it was wrong and that he should leave Mrs Lund in peace. But who was he fooling? She was a journalist and an ambitious one at that. He had barely got the words out before she had found a telephone booth, with a directory hanging on a metal cord, and discovered the home address for Lund, Dr G.E. If he had known it would be that simple, James would have done it himself.
‘Don’t be too tough on yourself,’ Dorothy had said as they turned onto Church Street, the harder edges on her voice softer now, as if they had been planed away. The change made him wonder which of the two voices he had heard from her over the course of this day was real and which the fake. ‘You’re paying a condolence visit.’
‘I’d hardly call it that.’
‘She may find it comforting to talk to someone who saw her husband at the end.’
