In the morning, Wilde was up before either Lydia or Marfield and went downstairs hoping to talk to Jim about the events in the night. There was no sign of him. Wilde cornered the housekeeper in the kitchen. She seemed agitated.
‘Mr Vanderberg was called away to the embassy early, Professor,’ she said. ‘He left a note to say there was urgent business and that he would call you later. He wished you a safe journey back to Cambridge. An embassy car will collect you at eleven to take you to Liverpool Street.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Harley.’ Wilde paused. Her face was drawn and pale. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
The housekeeper took a series of shallow breaths, as though gulping for air. ‘There was something else, sir. On the wireless this morning, the newsreader announced that the Germans have torpedoed a British liner off the coast of Ireland.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Wilde understood at once.
‘I’m worried it might have been the ship Mrs Vanderberg and the boys were on. I think that might be why Mr Vanderberg rushed away so early . . .’ She burst into tears. ‘I’m so scared, sir!’
*
They arrived in Cambridge in the early evening, all three of them exhausted. The train’s departure had been delayed as hundreds of evacuee children, some alone but most with mothers, crowded into the carriages and companionways on their way to new lodgings in the country. The journey was long and arduous, standing room only, with no refreshments available, and the train kept stopping en route without explanation. Apart from the evacuees, there were many soldiers and airmen in uniform.
Cambridge felt alien and grey. It was full of removal trucks, and of workmen digging with pneumatic drills, picks and shovels in places that should have been oases of calm. Walls of sandbags were going up everywhere, disfiguring college facades and all other buildings deemed important.
Wilde felt sad and angry – and helpless. He now felt almost certain that Juliet Vanderberg and the boys, William and Henry, had been on the Athenia. He had tried calling Jim at the embassy but could not get through, and there was nothing else he could do. The headline in the Evening Standard he had bought at Liverpool Street Station said that hundreds had been saved, but it was clear, too, that there had been many deaths. The thought of children jumping for their lives in to the bitterly cold waters of the Atlantic was too much to bear. He and Lydia scarcely spoke on the gruelling journey to Cambridge. Their companion, too, had gazed out of the window in listless silence.
‘Well, Marfield,’ Wilde said as the cab drew up outside his house. ‘I suggest you stay here with me tonight and then I’ll go to college in the morning to discover the lie of the land. Perhaps they can find accommodation for you.’
Marfield shrugged. ‘Whatever you think best.’
‘And I feel I should contact your parents.’
‘Please don’t do that, Professor. My father won’t have me across the threshold.’
Doris, Wilde’s housekeeper, was there to greet them. ‘I was expecting you a lot earlier, Professor. I’ve left out some cold meats and pickles with fresh bread. I could rustle up something more substantial if you’d like.’
‘What do you think, Lydia?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll open a tin of soup,’ Lydia said. She smiled at Marfield. ‘As for you, young man, I’m taking you to Addenbrooke’s first thing tomorrow. College can wait. I want that arm to have some proper attention. Nine o’clock sharp.’ What she didn’t mention was that she had also suggested to Wilde that there might be a way to get Marfield some professional help for his psychological problems, and Wilde had asked her to see if she could sort something out.
Marfield nodded, as compliant as a lamb. How different from the young man involved in that strange confrontation on a dark London street a few hours earlier, thought Wilde. There had been real anger, even aggression, on both sides.
Lydia kissed Wilde and walked the short distance to her own, larger property, Cornflowers – a splendid eighteenth-century house inherited from her parents. Doris, meanwhile, was upstairs making a bed for Marfield in one of Wilde’s spare rooms.
The phone rang. Wilde picked up and immediately recognised the voice.
‘Jim?’
‘Hello, Tom.’
Just two words, but Wilde read distance and despondency into them. He knew Vanderberg too well. ‘Any news?’ No time for small talk.
‘You know about the Athenia?’
‘I put two and two together. Please tell me they’re all OK.’
‘I wish I could, Tom. Henry’s been rescued, but there’s no word on Juliet and William.’
‘Jesus, Jim, I’m sorry. Have you spoken to Henry?’
‘No, but I know he’s aboard a destroyer bound for Greenock.’
‘Where are you? Can I do anything?’
‘I’m on a train straight up to Glasgow. We’ve stopped at this goddamned station in the middle of nowhere, and I found this phone. Tripp’s driving up so we’ll have a car at our disposal and Jack Kennedy, the Ambassador’s son, will be joining us with one or two others. Tom – I just can’t think straight.’
‘Why Glasgow? I thought she embarked at Liverpool.’
‘They’re taking survivors to Glasgow and Ireland. Joe’s sent a couple of Naval attachés to Galway to find out what’s happening. We’ll be looking after any Americans brought in to Scotland . . . there were a lot on board – over three hundred – and hundreds of Canadians too.’
Wilde wanted to say: She’ll be OK, Jim. But that was worse than a bromide. ‘What do we know? I saw the piece in the Standard, but that was pretty threadbare.’
‘All I’m sure of is that two, perhaps three ships went to the rescue. Apparently there are survivors and I know there are deaths. I’m hoping things will be clearer by the time I get north of the border. I’ll call you, Tom, I promise. Jesus, how could a goddamned U-boat captain think an unarmed ocean-going liner is a fit and proper target? Is that the way this war is going to be fought?’
As Wilde put the phone down, he saw that Marfield was watching him. Wilde shook his head. ‘I suppose this is nothing new to you. Death and destruction.’ He had an edge of bitterness in his voice, anger at everyone whose profession was war.
‘I saw some bad stuff.’
‘Do you want to talk about it? The offer stands.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I understand, I suppose. But I know one thing that might help both of us. I’ve got whisky. Do want to get tight? You might sleep better.’
‘Thank you. I’ll drink your whisky, Professor, but it won’t help me sleep. I’ve tried it too many times before.’
‘No harm in trying again.’ Wilde found the bottle and poured two tumblers. They clinked glasses. ‘Good to have you home.’
*
Wilde and Lydia owned separate houses next door to each other. They had been neighbours before they became lovers. When Wilde went next door to check on Lydia, he found her sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ He put an arm around her.
‘I’ll be all right. It’s just everything: the bloody war, the end of summer. All I need is a couple of good nights’ sleep.’
He wasn’t convinced but knew better than to press the issue. ‘Can I use your phone?’
‘Something wrong with your own?’
‘I don’t want Marfield to hear.’
He called the porters’ lodge at college. The phone was answered by an unfamiliar voice.
‘Is Scobie there?’ Wilde asked. Scobie was the head porter.
‘Just a moment, sir.’
A few seconds delay. ‘Yes?’
‘Scobie, it’s Professor Wilde. Have I caught you at a bad time?’
‘Just knocking off, sir.’
‘I’ll make it quick. Do you have a home number for Marcus Marfield?’
‘The choral scholar who ran away to the Spanish war?’
‘That’s the one. He’s home and I want to call his people.’
‘Well glory be. Now then . . .’
Wilde heard the rustle of paper.
‘Ah, here he is. Yes, got it. Ipswich number.’
Wilde thanked Scobie and hung up, then called the Marfields’ home. It rang for almost a minute and he was about to give up when it was finally answered.
‘Hello, Marfield residence.’
‘Is that Mrs Marfield?’
‘Yes, who’s speaking please?’
‘It’s Professor Wilde, from Cambridge University.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. You supervised Marcus’s history studies.’ She sounded polite but wary.
‘That’s right. Look, Mrs Marfield, I have some news. I hope you and your husband will think it excellent news.’
‘My husband is dead, Professor Wilde. Is this something to do with Marcus?’
Her voice was very flat, he thought. Why would a mother not leap upon the possibility of some good news – any news – about her vanished son? ‘I am very sorry to hear about your husband’s death, Mrs Marfield.’ He paused and when there was no response, ploughed on. ‘But I am pleased to tell you that I have brought your son back to England. He is presently staying with me here in Cambridge. He didn’t want me to call you, but I have taken it on myself to do so. I thought you should know.’
‘I see.’ No emotion. No joy, no sadness. ‘My husband shot himself this morning, Professor. It was Marcus’s fault, of course. Ronald couldn’t bear the loss of his son. He loved him more than anything else in the world, you know.’
Wilde was deeply shocked. He didn’t know what to say. He thought back to his conversation with Colonel Marfield when Marcus first disappeared. He had called him up to ask if they knew where he had gone, and it had been stilted and awkward. The Marfields hadn’t come to college to meet him, and nor had he been invited down to their Suffolk home. Now it began to make sense; whatever damage had been caused to Marfield’s relationship with his parents had occurred some time before he went off to join the International Brigades.
‘What would you like me to do, Mrs Marfield? I don’t know if I can persuade Marcus to come down to Ipswich with me. Would you like to come up here?’
‘No. No thank you, Professor. My son is dead to me – and I would be grateful if you say nothing to him about this call. I will not expect to hear from you again. I thank you for your good intentions, but that is my decision. Good evening to you.’
The line went dead. Wilde stood for a few moments looking at the handset in astonishment. What could Marcus Marfield have done to drive such a wedge between him and his parents? And what had driven his father to shoot himself on the very day of his return to Cambridge?