Wilde couldn’t leave Mimi. He had no idea who the men below might be. Were they officers of the state or rogue elements like the man who murdered Harriet’s father? If a defenceless old man’s throat had been slit without a qualm, what chance would Mimi Lalique have? He had to fear the worst.
There were no dividing walls between the lofts of the terrace of houses. Wilde carried her through to the far loft and stood on the shattered joists above a gaping hole, torn open by a massive bomb. Above them, a shaft of sunlight pierced through a hole in the roof where the Luftwaffe’s unwanted gift had ripped through the tiles.
It was what lay below that concerned Wilde. All he could make out was a dark tangle of broken boards and brick. The bomb had coursed through the centre of the house, collapsing landings and damaging staircases. Had it exploded, there would have been nothing left of the building; as it was there was wreckage enough to make the place uninhabitable.
Had Harriet come this way, climbing down through the broken timbers and rubble to the ground floor? Alone, he was pretty sure he could find a way down, but carrying Mimi was another matter. He weighed up his choices, wondering for a brief moment whether he could leave her here and go to fetch help. He instantly discounted that as an option; she was suffering badly – a heart attack, perhaps? – and the sooner she reached proper medical assistance, the better her chance of survival. He had to get her to hospital.
Behind him, along the line of lofts, he heard the sound of hammering once more. The men were trying to break open the hatch.
He manipulated Mimi around to his back, one arm over his shoulder, her legs over his other shoulder. She felt even lighter now and he had a hand free. Unlike the retractable ladder at Mimi’s house, the loft here had the remains of a proper staircase. Steep and narrow, but with a banister down the left side. Slowly, he descended to the remains of the upper landing. Mimi was silent, showing few signs of life. But every few seconds he felt sure he could sense faint breathing.
Flight by flight, step by step he made his way down. On the second floor, half of the staircase had been torn away and he had to edge his way with his back against the wall. A misstep or a collapsing stair would carry them both away.
At last, they made it to the debris-strewn ground floor. No sign of the bomb; he assumed it had been defused and removed many months ago. London had not suffered much bombing this past year. Motes of dust hung in the air, catching the low evening light that crept in through the gaps where windows had once been. Wilde placed Mimi on the floor for a few moments while he caught his breath. He took her wrist and felt for a pulse, then put his ear to her chest. She was alive, but in grave peril. He could do with Harriet’s assistance, but she had vanished.
The front door was unlocked. He poked his head out tentatively, looking back along the street to Mimi’s property, expecting to see the men who had broken in. But there was no one. The men could emerge at any moment, however, either from above or below; he had to take his chances right now.
He picked up Mimi again and placed her across his shoulders, paused a moment in the doorway, then took a deep breath and strode purposefully out on to the street as though he did this every day. Walking to the right, he didn’t look back, taking the first turning. Now they were out of sight. He could breathe again.
His initial instinct was to knock on someone’s door – anyone’s door. Everyone around this exclusive part of Westminster would have a telephone. But a black cab was passing and he hailed it.
‘Hospital. Take us to the nearest hospital.’
‘Hop in, sir.’ The driver began manoeuvring a U-turn even as Wilde was laying Mimi out on the bench seat. ‘That’ll be St Thomas’ – or whatever’s left of it after the bloody Hun’s done their worst.’
*
They pulled up outside the emergency department within a few minutes. The old hospital was so badly damaged that Wilde was astonished that any part of it could still be functioning. Two nurses and a doctor immediately took control of the situation. Wilde gave them Mimi’s name but the nurses didn’t seem impressed; a patient was a patient, however famous.
‘Will you wait, sir?’ one of the nurses asked.
‘Do you really need me? I’m not related to Miss Lalique.’
‘I think it better we have someone on hand who is acquainted with her, just in case. Do you know whether she has any history of heart problems?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘Asthma? Lung condition?’
‘All I can tell you is that she was going upstairs and began to have difficulty breathing. She was clutching her chest as though she had a great pain and she was clearly becoming very weak. She just about managed to talk to me, but then she seemed to lose consciousness. Her breathing and heart rate were very faint. I brought her here as fast as I could. I thought it quicker than waiting for an ambulance.’
‘You did the right thing, sir. It would really help if you could wait here a little while longer, Mr . . .’
‘Wilde,’ he said and then wished he hadn’t.
‘We’ll need whatever details you have. Address, next of kin. Your own telephone number.’
‘And then I can go? You’ll be able to get me at the American embassy.’
The nurse looked at her watch. ‘Well, of course you’re not being held prisoner, but if you could just stay half an hour?’
He didn’t want to wait – he needed to get to safety – but he felt he didn’t have much option. The nurse escorted him downstairs to the basement where the wards and operating theatre had been relocated, and offered him a seat. The hospital was much reduced, but was still performing a crucial role. The electric clock on the wall said seven o’clock. He didn’t want to sit down.
After twenty-five minutes another nurse came and offered him a cup of tea. He declined the offer and asked how Mimi was.
‘Difficult to say, sir.’
‘She’ll certainly be kept in overnight, though?’
‘Yes, sir. She has had a heart attack.’
‘That sounds bad.’
‘The doctor has given her some morphine for the pain and to relax her. You did well to get her here so promptly. There’s very little else to be done. Just wait and see, I’m afraid.’
‘But nothing I can do?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Then I’m going to have to take my leave of you. If anything happens, if you need me, you have my phone number and I’ll be a fifteen-minute taxi ride away.’
‘Yes, of course, I understand.’
He had to get to the embassy in Grosvenor Square so that he could contact Bill Phillips and get advice on what to do next. He guessed he would be advised to call in the police and allow them to interview him on embassy premises in the presence of counsel, in which case he might have to answer ‘no comment’ when asked what he was trying to do in Clade. Or perhaps he could find some way to get the whole thing sorted out through diplomatic channels? He was also keen to discover the fate of Harriet Hartwell.
Outside, the evening was fresh and clear. The sky over Lambeth was darkening fast and there were no street lights. He needed a taxi again, but legend had it that cabbies didn’t like to operate on this side of the river. He might improve his chances by walking north across Westminster Bridge.
He didn’t see Philip Eaton until it was too late.
There were two other men with him, men who looked a great deal stronger than Eaton; they wore plain clothes but had the demeanour of junior secret service officers. To the layman, they probably looked pretty anonymous, but for someone accustomed to the intelligence world, there was no doubt what they were. Wilde’s first instinct was that these must have been the ones who had broken into Mimi’s house, which meant they were armed.
‘Goddamn it, Wilde, you’re a devil to find when you make yourself scarce,’ Eaton said.
‘Eaton.’ His body was tensed for flight, weighing up his chances. He was strong enough, too, and reasonably fleet of foot. But he had no weapon.
‘Look, be a good fellow and don’t make a fuss. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us. That’s our car.’ A black Rolls Royce stood at the kerb. Just like the one Eaton had used on his trip to Cambridge the day after Cazerove’s suicide. What was going on here? MI6 definitely did not have Rolls Royces in its fleet.
‘You can’t touch me, Eaton. Diplomatic immunity.’
‘Sorry, old boy, needs must.’ He nodded to his two men. They moved in on Wilde as one. He didn’t fight them; he knew it was pointless, so he allowed them to bundle him into the back of the car. One slid in alongside him while the other took the wheel, with Eaton at his side.
‘I won’t let you get away with this, Eaton. This is no way to treat your country’s friends.’
‘Friends don’t go around slitting the throats of ageing schoolteachers.’
‘You know damn well that wasn’t me.’
‘Then you’ll have nothing to fear from being interviewed, will you? You have plenty of questions to answer. Come on, we’ve got a fair drive ahead of us.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘All in good time. Firstly, though, I would very much like you to tell me where the girl is.’
‘Girl? What girl?’
Eaton sighed. ‘This is going to be a very long night.’
*
The car finally came to a halt just before eleven o’clock. Wilde knew exactly where he was: Cambridge. They were right outside the ancient building commonly known as Latimer Hall. It was one of the grandest residences in the town. Wilde recognised it immediately – and knew who owned the place and called it home.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘I take it you know where you are?’
‘Of course. Latimer Hall. Templeman lives here.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Yes, he always was filthy rich, wasn’t he? And I suppose this is one of his cars. I wondered what a secret service bod was doing riding around in a Rolls Royce.’
‘Come on, get out. You’ll have plenty of time for talking in a short while.’
Wilde was thinking. Strange that he was here at the home of Lord Templeman, yet another denizen of the Dada Club.
*
Templeman was in his large book-lined study wearing striped pyjamas and a cotton dressing gown, an outfit that would not have looked out of place at a boys’ boarding school when the pupils were huddled around drinking their cocoa and Horlicks before lights out. His desk looked like a hobbyist’s workbench, the remains of the German wireless scattered among various other bits and pieces, including screwdrivers, pliers and a soldering iron.
‘Ah, Professor Wilde again,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for coming to talk to us. Do take a seat.’
Wilde did not bother to reply to the welcome, which was spoken without a trace of irony. Nor was there any suggestion of a handshake.
‘Now then,’ Templeman continued. ‘Mr Eaton and I are rather hoping you might be able to clear up one or two things for us. The first is the whereabouts of Miss Harriet Hartwell.’
‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘Oh come, come. Are you saying you just chanced upon her home in Clade by accident? And how exactly did you come to know her aunt Miss Mimi Lalique?’
‘I will happily answer all your questions if you would care to call on me at the American embassy. In the meantime, I demand you put a call through to Bill Phillips.’
‘And get the poor chap out of bed? I really don’t think so.’
‘Those are my terms.’
‘I’m being a bad host. Perhaps you’d like a glass of whisky.’
‘No, I don’t really want anything.’
‘Mr Eaton tells me you have performed great services for this country, which I suppose we should call your adopted home, even though you retain American citizenship. Wouldn’t you like to help us on this matter?’
‘OK, I’ll have the whisky. And I’m sure you are aware that I have been issued with a diplomatic passport since taking up my role with the OSS.’
Templeman approached the sideboard and poured a Scotch for Wilde and brandy for himself and Eaton. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing over the glass. ‘Now look, I’m a civilised man and I believe you are one too so I’m going to go out on a limb here and explain what this is all about and why we need to find Miss Hartwell.’
‘I’m all ears.’ Wilde was sitting on an upholstered chair in front of the desk. However ‘civilised’ this might all be, he knew he was a prisoner. He sipped the whisky.
The two junior officers who had bundled him into the car were standing just inside the door. Templeman jutted his chin at them. ‘Leave us for a minute or two if you would, please, gentlemen.’ They gave him an obedient nod of the head and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind them.
‘Now then, professor, what I am about to tell you is top secret, known only to the King, the Prime Minister and half a dozen other people. The reason I am reluctant to discuss the matter with you is that, as an American and a member of the OSS, you will almost certainly feel duty-bound to convey this information to President Roosevelt. Our fear is that he might misunderstand our actions and that the alliance between our nations will suffer. I’m not going to insult you by swearing you to secrecy, but I would ask you to consider the potential harm that might be caused if you do break this confidence. The damage would be immense at home, too.’
Eaton cleared his throat. He was standing on the other side of the desk, at Lord Templeman’s side. ‘I’m calling in the favour, Wilde. You know what I’m talking about. You must tell us where she is.’
‘I don’t know – because I have no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘Damn it, Wilde,’ Eaton said, hammering his cane into the boards. ‘We have to find her!’
The MI6 man’s explosion was uncharacteristic, especially as Templeman was being so emollient. For a moment Wilde wondered whether he was about to be lashed by Eaton’s stick. He didn’t flinch. ‘Whoever she is, wherever she is, perhaps she doesn’t trust you,’ he said evenly.
‘Why has she gone missing? What is the connection with Peter Cazerove’s suicide? Because there is a link, we know that.’
‘And why do you think I might know where she is?’
‘You arrived at St Thomas’ with Miss Lalique. Since picking you up, I have sent an officer around to her house in Westminster. The place has been ransacked and a pair of Pekingese dogs were found sniffing around and shitting everywhere, seemingly abandoned. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s been going on.’
Wilde wanted to laugh. ‘Well, you should bloody know!’ he said. ‘It’s your men who broke in!’
‘It most certainly wasn’t.’
‘Then who was it?’
Eaton slumped down into a leather armchair, placing his cane on the floor and wincing as he stretched out his injured left leg. ‘Obviously someone else is looking for her. Perhaps they’ve found her. That’s my fear.’ He was still angry.
Templeman sighed. ‘Calm down, both of you. I know you and Wilde have history, Philip – but this is all unnecessary. I’ve said I’ll explain what this is about and so I shall. Perhaps Professor Wilde will then be more forthcoming.’
Wilde guessed that Templeman had a revolver, either in his desk or in his dressing-gown pocket. Eaton often carried a Walther. There really was no way out of this place. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell me your secret – but don’t expect me to swear an oath to keep it.’
‘But you will use your judgement, honed by years of fine work in academia, and weigh your actions carefully?’
‘I can promise you that. But nothing more.’