Rupert Weir, police surgeon, examined the body, then stood back and gazed at it dispassionately. ‘Prussic acid, almost certainly, but we’ll have to get the forensics boys on the case to be sure.’
‘It was very quick.’
‘That’s the point. That’s why people take it. You’ll need to give the police a full statement, Tom. Clearly suicide from what you say, but the method raises a few difficult questions. Where did he get a hydrogen cyanide pill? Can’t buy them off the shelf at Jesse Boot’s.’
Indeed, it had occurred to Wilde that poison capsules tended to be specially created for secret agents. The sort of thing the OSS would be handing out to its operatives behind enemy lines when it became fully operational in the near future. Useful for a quick exit when the unpleasant prospect of slow, agonising death at the hands of the Gestapo was the only alternative.
Weir yawned and loosened his tie. As always, winter or summer, he was wearing one of his signature tweed suits. ‘Hell of a day. I’m wiped out, Tom.’
‘Me too. All I want is home and bed.’ He put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. ‘And perhaps a small dram.’
‘Good plan. By the way, do you have any information about poor Cazerove’s next of kin?’
‘Yes, I can help with that. His people are prosperous farmers, somewhere between Downham Market and Swaffham. The college will have details on file.’
Weir nodded towards the two policemen standing outside the carriage. ‘The body’s all yours, Sergeant Talbot. Get it to the mortuary at Addenbrooke’s in the first instance, and I’ll contact Scotland Yard about further tests.’ He turned back to Wilde. ‘By the way, the rest of the fruit drops in the tin seem like regular sweets, so he probably wasn’t trying to poison you when he offered them to you. But I’ll have them analysed anyway, just to be sure. Do you want to go to the nick and give a statement now?’
‘I’d rather leave it until morning. Lydia will be waiting up for me.’
‘Tomorrow morning will be fine, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ll let them know you’re coming in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come on then,’ Weir said. ‘Let’s get you home.’
They walked down the platform with the sergeant, leaving the constable with the train guard to look after the body and organise its removal. Once more, Wilde went over the story of his journey with Cazerove, adding details as he remembered them.
As they passed the barrier, the concourse was empty save for a couple of members of staff. But then Wilde noticed a man standing outside the waiting room, which was closed for the night. He had his hands in his pockets and his dark, deep-set eyes had been following their movements. Something about him interested Wilde. ‘One moment, Rupert,’ he said and approached the man, who instantly made as if to back away. Wilde stayed him with a hand to his arm.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ Wilde said.
The man was in his early twenties and he wasn’t an impressive specimen, little more than five feet tall. He had the gaunt look of someone whose growth had been stunted by childhood malnutrition. Bow-legged like a jockey and with the pinched cheekbones of a rickets sufferer. He looked up at Wilde. ‘Are you a copper?’
‘No, why?’
‘Well, your mate is, that’s why.’ He inclined his head towards the uniformed sergeant. ‘Something happened, has it, mister?’
‘A man died on the train. Were you waiting for him?’
‘What man? How did he die?’ The thin, reedy voice ratcheted up a couple of notches.
‘You are answering my questions with questions of your own.’
‘Well, I don’t know who you sodding are, do I?’
‘I’m Thomas Wilde, a professor here in Cambridge. Who are you?’
‘You said a man died, who was it?’
‘First your name.’
The young man hesitated, then mumbled a word. It sounded like ‘Mortimer’ to Wilde, but he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
‘Mortimer? Is that your name?’
‘Call me what you sodding like.’
‘Does the name Cazerove mean anything to you? Peter Cazerove?’
The young man shook his head, but his skin had turned a shade paler. His sharp, furtive eyes glanced past Wilde to where the large, tweed-clad form of Rupert Weir was coming their way. Without a word, the young man ducked down out of Wilde’s reach and slid along the wall, then hurried towards the station exit. Wilde considered chasing him, but wasn’t sure there was any point, so let him go.
‘What was that, Tom?’ Weir asked.
‘I think he was waiting for Peter Cazerove. Taxi driver, perhaps?’ He turned to Sergeant Talbot. ‘Have you seen that lad before? He said his name was Mortimer.’
Talbot shook his head. ‘No. Not a member of the Cambridge criminal fraternity to my knowledge – but from the way he scarpered when he saw me approaching, I think it’s fair to assume he doesn’t like bobbies.’
‘My thought too. Very odd. He seemed to have a vaguely West Country accent.’
‘I’ll ask the lads down at the station. Easy one to describe, that boy. Someone might know him.’
As they drove slowly from the railway station through the darkened streets of Cambridge, Wilde recalled what Cazerove had said to him and posed the question to Weir. ‘Cazerove referred to something in the news, something worse than the disastrous French raid. Has there been some kind of big event today, Rupert? I’ve been up to my eyes in meetings, paperwork and operational planning, so I’m afraid I’ve rather blanked the outside world.’
‘Big event, Tom? The world is ablaze with big events.’ Rupert Weir sat comfortably in the driver’s seat, his belly propped against the steering wheel as he manoeuvred the Wolseley through the centre of town. As a police surgeon, he divided his time between his work as family doctor and police work whenever they needed him to examine a corpse or wanted to determine whether someone had been driving drunk. The hours were long and he looked as tired as Wilde felt.
‘Something out of the ordinary.’
‘It’s all out of the ordinary. I long for the return of ordinary.’
*
Wilde was dropped at Cornflowers, the old house he shared with Lydia Morris, the love of his life and mother of his son. He had offered Rupert Weir a nightcap, but the offer was declined. ‘I need my bed, Tom. Let’s talk tomorrow after you’ve called in at St Andrew’s Street.’
Lydia was sleepy-eyed and clad in a dressing gown as she opened the door. Without a word, she sank into Wilde’s arms. They kissed and his hands strayed inside the gown, finding warm flesh. Then he stood back. ‘Look at you,’ he said, ‘more beautiful than ever.’
‘Smooth-talking bastard.’
He laughed, then hauled his suitcase over the threshold and followed her through to the sitting room. It was a cool late August evening. A standard lamp glowed above the armchair where he knew she would have been curled up like a cat, reading a novel.
‘A drink, my master?’
‘Just the one, and then bed. How’s the boy?’
‘Johnny’s fine. Sleeps through the night then talks non-stop. All day long he’s been saying “Daddy come, Daddy come”. He’ll be all over you in the morning. Anyway, what kept you?’
As Lydia poured two whiskies, Wilde told her about the incident on the train and Cazerove’s despair and guilt over the disastrous Dieppe raid and some other ‘big event’.
‘Peter Cazerove?’ she said, frowning as she handed Wilde his glass. ‘Did I ever meet him?’
‘You did, but you probably won’t recall it. I invited him home for supper, but there were half a dozen other undergraduates along too. It wasn’t a very memorable evening and Cazerove was rather quiet, I think.’
‘Perhaps I do vaguely remember him. A bit stiff but very dapper?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘It’s all coming back to me. Wasn’t he a rather effete young man?’
‘Not a word I’d use for him. Bumptious, maybe. A bit aloof. He was an Athel – and they’re all a bit like that.’
‘Oh yes, the Athels. Rather austere lot, a bit like Jesuits in that.’
‘Yes, that probably sums them up. But he wasn’t like that tonight.’
‘Did you like him, Tom?’
‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but frankly, no, I didn’t. But then I don’t think I’ve ever liked any of the Athelstans crew. Unpleasantly cliquey – seem to think themselves a cut above the rest of us. As an American who loves England, your snobbish elitism is one of the things that always left me cold.’
‘My snobbish elitism?’
‘Well, not yours personally, but you know what I mean.’
‘Do I? Oh dear.’
‘All those bloody clubs in Pall Mall whose sole purpose is to keep out the plebs. The Apostles here in Cambridge with their silly secrecy – even though everyone knows who they are. And then there are the Athels, who look on the Apostles as upstarts.’
She laughed. ‘Says the man from bloody Harrow!’
Wilde couldn’t help laughing too. ‘Are you suggesting I’m a snob?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘You tell me.’
‘Well, I hope not, but yes, there were some arrogant bastards there. Some were downright cruel – but I’ve told you this before, haven’t I? It was survival of the fittest and so I became a boxer. If I hadn’t, I might have gone under.’
‘And on the subject of privilege and discrimination, what about this university that employs you? I believe they’re still insisting that women are not clever enough to be granted degrees.’
‘Quite. That, too.’
‘Got it all off your chest now, have you, darling?’
‘Sorry, it’s been one hell of an evening.’
‘Well then, sink your whisky. You know I’ve got nothing on under this dressing gown, don’t you?’
‘I had noticed . . . you’re shameless, Miss Morris.’
‘Then what are you going to do about it, Mr Wilde?’