The conversation went in circles. After an hour, Eaton said he had to go, but that he would be in touch. As they shook hands at the doorway, Wilde was surprised to see that the ministry driver was standing beside a Rolls Royce.
‘I hope my taxes aren’t paying for that,’ he said.
‘We had to borrow it in a hurry,’ Eaton replied. ‘No pool cars available. Despite the price tag, it’s still not that comfortable when you have a smashed-up leg.’
Wilde waved him off, then walked down to St Andrew’s Street to give a statement to police. The inspector in charge was an officer brought out of retirement because of staff shortages caused by so many young men opting to fight in the military rather than walk the beat.
‘Nasty business,’ the inspector said when Wilde had completed his statement.
‘Has there been any word on the poison he used?’
‘Not confirmed, but Dr Weir seems pretty sure it was cyanide. The body will be taken to the Scotland Yard forensic lab later today.’
‘Well, at least it was a quick death.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Of course, sir. Your statement seems to fit what we already know. Just be aware that there will be an inquest in the next few days, once the Met science boys produce their report. The coroner will almost certainly want you there.’
‘You know where to find me.’
He stopped off at the college before going home, picked up his mail from the porters’ lodge and went to pay his respects to the Master, Sir Archibald Spence, who seemed distracted by administrative duties. ‘Can’t stop to chat, I’m afraid, Wilde.’
‘I understand, master.’
‘But good to see you all the same.’ He patted Wilde on the shoulder. ‘The place is full of ministry men and American service personnel. I tell you this, though – I wish I hadn’t taken your advice on the chapel glass.’
‘Hasn’t been damaged, has it?’ Wilde recalled that he hadn’t actually advised the Master against removing the chapel’s stained glass for the duration. All he had done was suggest that Cambridge would not be high on the Luftwaffe’s list of targets. He had been wrong on that score.
‘No damage, thank the Lord,’ Spence said. ‘But it was damned nerve-racking when Goering’s boys started dropping their iron eggs. Had a few sleepless nights, I can tell you, Wilde. Anyway, hopefully the worst of it is over now. London’s a lot quieter, I believe.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And you’ve had to give up your air-raid duties, I’m told.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’re doing good work elsewhere. Good man.’
Wilde took his leave of the Master and went up to his rooms overlooking the old court. He worked his way through his letters then pushed them aside and set off for home. More than anything, he wanted to spend these days of freedom with Lydia and Johnny.
As he entered Cornflowers, the phone rang. Lydia was looking at him, eyebrow raised.
‘Could you get it, darling?’ Wilde really didn’t want to speak to anyone.
‘Oh, it’ll be for you.’
He sighed and picked up the phone. It was William Phillips, new London bureau chief of the fledgling Office of Strategic Services. Wilde had been helping the old boy get his feet under the table since his arrival from America last month, working as his main adviser on the internal politics of Great Britain.
‘Enjoying your little break, Tom?’
‘You don’t know how funny that is, Bill.’
‘Have you seen the news?’
‘What in particular?’
‘The plane crash in Scotland. Any thoughts?’
‘Ah, yes, I did see that.’
‘And?’
‘Well, the RAF say it was an accident.’ Where, he wondered, was this curious phone call heading?
‘You believe that?’
‘I suppose so. Why, shouldn’t I? Have you heard something, Bill?’
‘Oh, just wondering what you thought. You know the British a great deal better than I do.’
‘I’m told it was a straightforward accident.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Philip Eaton.’
‘I don’t think I’ve met him.’
‘Well, I’m sure you will in due course. He’s MI6. Used to run their Iberian desk but he’s been moved into quite a senior role. Anyway, he appeared on my doorstep this morning and we got to talking about the Duke’s death.’
‘And when he said it was an accident, did you believe him?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because, as I just said, you know the British.’
‘Well, they do have a tendency to keep things close to their chest. But whatever the cause of the crash, I’d say it has nothing to do with us. This is a clear-cut British affair. We have to keep our noses out. You know the rules, Bill, because you wrote them: strict demarcation.’
‘That’s not the way the President sees it. He wants to know what happened.’
Wilde didn’t like to contradict his new boss, but in this case he had to lay it on the line. ‘Honestly, Bill, I really think we have to leave this one to the host nation. Well outside our remit, wouldn’t you say?’
‘FDR liked the Duke. They were very good friends and he was godfather to the Duchess’s new baby boy. Little Michael George Charles Franklin, born last month. Notice the Franklin in there?’
‘Yes, I noticed – and I understand his interest, but that has to be as far as it goes.’
‘You don’t know Roosevelt like I do. When he inquires in that reassuring New England drawl what the hell happened, what he is saying is – get the hell out there and find out what the hell happened. He doesn’t trust the British line one iota. And I see his point; they’re too quick off the mark with their “tragic accident” claims. Why aren’t they investigating properly? John Winant wants answers, too. The Duke was at Bristol to meet him when he arrived here as ambassador. Everyone liked the Duke – he was one of the good guys.’
Wilde sighed; he had a horrible feeling that there was no interest in his opinion, but he forged on regardless. ‘Perhaps they are investigating but just don’t want to put it in the papers. Perhaps the tragic accident suggestion is for public consumption. The people wouldn’t be happy thinking their royal family was vulnerable to enemy attack.’ He knew he was wasting breath. This affair was not about to end with a telephone call. His precious break with Lydia and Johnny was about to be cut short.
‘To hell with public opinion, FDR thinks the Duke was shot down and he wants the truth.’
‘A targeted assassination or a lucky shot? I mean, why kill the Duke of Kent in particular?’
‘You know, Tom, the King’s brother was more than just a royal stooge. Damn it, he helped negotiate the lend-lease deal. And he successfully persuaded Salazar to keep Portugal out of the war. He was an important player. A very senior go-between.’
‘Of course.’
‘Which means he was a prime target. He had enemies. And the way FDR sees it, the Duke’s enemies are our enemies, too.’
Lydia was looking at him. He shook his head helplessly in her direction and suppressed a groan.
Wilde was aware that William Phillips had always been close to Roosevelt. They were of an age – at sixty-four, Phillips was only a couple of years older than the President – and they came from the same social stratum. Both were Harvard men. If a message was transmitted from the White House via Phillips, then you could be pretty darn sure it was to be acted on. ‘What do you want me to do, Bill?’
‘I want you to find out who killed the Duke of Kent – and why.’
‘So you want me to come back to London? You realise I’ve only been home twelve hours.’
Phillips’s deep laughter rumbled down the line. ‘No, Tom, I don’t want you to come back to London. I want you to go to Scotland.’
*
Wilde let his boss’s laughter subside; he didn’t find Phillips’s proposition at all amusing. No, proposition was the wrong word. Phillips hadn’t made a suggestion, he’d given an order – one that came directly from the President of the United States. One that had to be acted on, whatever Wilde’s misgivings.
The mission was nigh-on impossible, of course. He couldn’t just turn up unannounced in a remote corner of the country and ask questions. There was a war on, for God’s sake. People who pried into matters which didn’t seem to concern them were likely to end up in an internment camp on the Isle of Man. Or worse, shot out of hand.
Bill Phillips was already ahead of him, anticipating and answering his objections. ‘We have arranged accreditation for you.’
‘How the hell did you manage that?’
‘The embassy talked to 10 Downing Street. Papers will be biked up to you this afternoon and you will take the overnight to Oban. From there you will be flown to Invergordon. Apparently, that’s the same journey the Duke took.’
‘And Invergordon – that’s a naval base, right?’
‘Royal Navy and Royal Air Force. The Duke’s flying boat left from RAF Invergordon. Instructions to cooperate have been phoned through to them. That doesn’t mean the guys up there will like it or be friendly, but they’re not in a position to say no. You will be met in Scotland by a civil servant and will be given every assistance.’
‘Is that necessary? I’d rather do this alone.’
‘That part of the coast is very sensitive – seen as exceptionally vulnerable to enemy attack, so there are a lot of military installations in the region. Anyone nosing around will immediately be suspect. So you’ll be chaperoned as closely as a virgin debutante.’
‘What excuse did the embassy give for my journey? They couldn’t say that the President doesn’t trust the British.’
‘Of course not. You will be there as a mark of respect, to pay tribute and say a prayer at the site of the crash and to do anything you can to assist the army and the local people. You will be expected to talk to nearby residents and, on behalf of the President and people of the United States, to thank them for their efforts in doing all they could for our good friend the Duke and all the others on the plane.’
As a cover story, it was solid enough, he supposed, particularly as it had been concocted at speed by Phillips. All his experience as a diplomat, including his most recent role as ambassador to Italy, must have come into play for the smooth but hard-as-nails OSS chief.
‘Then I don’t really have an option, do I?’
‘I’m afraid you don’t. You know, Tom, in my month here in London I have been wined and dined and treated like royalty by the British secret services. But they don’t fool me for a moment – and I tell you this, I will not allow the London office of the OSS to be walked over by the British intelligence services. They will try to foist their version of events on to you, but you won’t let them. Good luck – and keep in touch.’ The line went dead.
Wilde put down the phone and caught Lydia’s withering look. He shrugged dismally.
‘You’ve only just arrived and now you’re going away,’ she said.
‘You heard all that?’
‘Your face told me everything.’
‘I’m sorry. Hopefully it will be just a couple of days. I’m not going to find anything, am I? And then I’ll come home, my duty done.’
Lydia raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘How many years have I known you, Tom? Too many to fall for that line. You won’t rest until you’ve discovered the truth. Now, come on, I’ve made you some lunch.’
‘Thank you.’ He wandered to the window and looked out on the street, trying to collect his thoughts. It was a pleasant summer day, little wind, cotton clouds in a blue sky. There were times he loved this town, other times he wondered what he was doing here. Across the road, near the postbox, a little man stood with his hands deep in his jacket pockets.
Wilde peered closer, trying to see the face half-shrouded by the brim of a hat. He seemed familiar. And then he realised: it was the bow-legged young man from Cambridge station, the one who had disappeared hurriedly when the police sergeant approached. The one who looked like he should be riding racehorses on Newmarket Heath. Wilde opened the door. The man was still there.
‘Mr Mortimer, isn’t it? Are you looking for me?’ he called as he crossed the road.
The young man shrank back momentarily, but then held his ground, his eyes sullen and defiant. Wilde was almost upon him now. ‘Who are you?’ Wilde kept his hands in his trouser pockets. The boxer in him was always ready for a fight, but he wanted to look casual so he could talk to this young man, not scare him off.
‘What happened to him?’ Mortimer demanded flatly.
‘You’re answering questions with questions again, young man. I’ve already told you my name – and I told you Peter Cazerove died on the train. Now, what’s your business in all this?’
The young man seemed to think for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Did you kill Cazerove? I need to know how he died.’
‘No, I didn’t hurt him. There will be an inquest soon enough – so go along to that. Now, Mortimer, what was he to you? I’m very happy to talk to you, but you really will have to tell me who you are. I imagine you were there to pick him up – but why?’
‘You had a visitor this morning. One-armed man. Who was it?’
Wilde had had enough. ‘You’ve obviously been spying on me. Come on, I think the police would like a little chat with you.’ Wilde reached out to grasp the young man’s arm, but he stepped back again, out of reach.
‘Don’t touch me, mister, or I’ll do for you. I’m going nowhere near any police. What I want to know from you is what happened on the train. What did he say to you?’
‘Come into my house then. Have a cup of tea and we can talk about all this.’
The young man hesitated, then made a noise like a growl. His left hand inched up from his jacket pocket and Wilde caught a glint of metal.
‘If that’s a knife . . .’
The hand slid down again and the glint was gone. ‘Sod you, mister. You’ll be hearing from us.’ He backed away, his face rat-like and glowering, then he scurried away, just as he had done at the railway station.