‘Good God, the bastard’s gone rogue.’ Rowlands spoke quietly. He shook his head in disbelief.
Wilde tried to lighten the tone. ‘Well, he certainly seems to be avoiding you both, but is that really what you’d call going rogue? He’s been behaving oddly, I agree, but he’s still recovering. He was in a terrible state when we found him.’
‘This goes back a long way. Why hasn’t he made contact in the past year?’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t able to.’
‘No,’ Rowlands said. ‘That’s not it. I think we know him rather better than you do, Wilde . . .’ Rowlands had been lounging in Wilde’s armchair, his Homburg occupying pride of place on the desk. Eaton was lost in the corner of the sofa, nursing a glass of whisky. One of them – he had assumed Rowlands – had found the bottle and poured them both hefty measures. The air smelt smoky and as Eaton didn’t use cigarettes, Wilde assumed Rowlands was the culprit.
‘So where is he?’ Rowlands asked.
‘I don’t know,’ was all Wilde could say. ‘I think he got wind of your presence.’
Rowlands lit a cigarette, drew deeply and flicked the tip of ash on the floor.
‘Don’t do that,’ Wilde said.
‘What’s that, old man?’
‘Your cigarette. Put it out.’
‘God, I’m so sorry – should have asked.’
Wilde handed him his only ashtray and Rowlands obliged by stubbing out the offending article. ‘Now look,’ Wilde said. ‘I may not know Marfield the spy, but I certainly know the young student – and I can see that he has been deeply affected by his recent experiences. It’s possible he is concealing something, but that’s not really my concern. What troubles me is his state of mind. I have no idea what happened to him over in Spain, but I do know he has waking nightmares: he talks about a ravine and some sort of aerial bombardment.’
‘That doesn’t explain why he’s avoiding us.’ Rowlands began pacing the room.
Wilde sighed. ‘Eaton, what’s going on here? What on earth do you think Marfield might be up to? You’re worried about something, yes?’
Eaton had said nothing until now. He turned to Rowlands. ‘I think we probably owe Professor Wilde some background, don’t you?’
‘What I think is that we need to trawl the streets of Cambridge, find Marfield, pull him in, close confine him in a small, windowless room with a single electric bulb, and feed him short commons for a few days. Then start the hard questions.’ Rowlands spoke with uncharacteristic vehemence.
‘No,’ said Eaton, shaking his head. ‘That won’t do.’ He winced, and shifted his position on the chair. ‘Look, Wilde, you know I don’t make a habit of offering information but you’ve put yourself to a great deal of trouble and we need some help on this.’
This was not like the Eaton of old. First he revealed Marfield was acting as a British agent in Spain, now he was offering more. Had the accident that cost him his left arm changed him? Wilde wondered. Or perhaps he had another motive. ‘Fire away.’
‘Guy has known Marfield for many years.’ Eaton curled his fingers, inviting his colleague to take over.
Rowlands looked askance at his colleague.
‘Carry on,’ Eaton said in a firm tone. ‘The professor is aware that we work for the intelligence service, and he knows Marfield was working for us. The story I want to tell him is not a state secret.’
Rowlands began to play with his bullet cufflinks. ‘Your call. You’re the senior officer.’
‘Then I’ll start you off,’ Eaton said flatly. ‘Rowlands here was a lieutenant in the same regiment as Marfield’s father at the end of the war.’
Rowlands fished out his cigarette case, saw Wilde’s critical glare and pushed it back into his pocket. ‘Ronald Marfield was my colonel and he took me under his wing. I became a family friend, and I had the privilege of watching Marcus and his brother growing up.’
‘I didn’t know he had a brother,’ Wilde said.
‘Ptolemy Marfield – about twenty months older than Marcus. Very different: dark, brooding, heavily built rugby player. Damned clever, too. Read Greats at Oxford. The brothers never really got on, perhaps because their father favoured Marcus so obviously. But Toll – that’s what everyone calls him – is not relevant to this.’
It might not be relevant to Marcus’s actions in Spain, but it certainly seemed relevant to the father’s devastation when his favourite son threatened the family name by getting a girl pregnant and then went off to fight for the Communists in Spain. The fact that all the family’s love had been lavished on a boy who – in their eyes – turned out bad was entirely germane.
‘A couple of years ago,’ Rowlands continued, ‘Ronald called me. He was pretty distraught, said Marcus was heading off to Spain and could I do anything to stop him, take his passport away or something like that? Well, of course, the horse had already bolted by then, but I wasn’t without influence.’
Eaton put up his hand to interject. ‘I should explain that Guy had recently taken over the Iberian desk from me.’
‘I was working from London most of the time, but through contacts I got word that Marcus had signed up for the International Brigades in Paris and was training with them in the rather unromantic town of Albacete. A curious bunch, full of zeal, quite disciplined, but problems with communication. All sorts of non-Spaniards kicking their heels and waiting to be sent somewhere to shoot Falangists. As it happened, I had to go out to meet some people in Barcelona, and so I thought I’d travel a little further south and pay him a visit. I had to be discreet, because the militias wouldn’t have taken kindly to one of their men conversing with a British agent.’
‘A bullet in the head?’
‘There was plenty of that on both sides. Anyway, I found him in the old Civil Guards HQ in the Calle de la Libertad and managed to make contact with the boy. Later he came to me at my hotel, the Mirador. All rather furtive. But curiosity had got the better of him. I greeted him guardedly, then we retreated to my room, where I ordered us both a decent meal and asked him what he bloody well thought he was doing. Didn’t he know the effect on his poor parents? I told him he was a damned fool and was almost certain to die for someone else’s pointless cause.’
Wilde was aware that men had gone to join the fight in Spain for many reasons. Some went to fight fascism and to help found a socialist utopia; others to escape the grinding poverty of unemployment in their home countries. There were those who were trying to avoid a prison term or merely have an adventure. And, yes, it was possible some men went simply to get away from marriage and fatherhood. Into which category did Marcus Marfield fit?
‘Obviously I tried hard to persuade him to come home with me. I failed. No fool like a young man in search of danger. And so I suggested that if he insisted on sacrificing himself for the Spanish Republic, the least he could do was to perform a few tasks for me on the side.’
‘How did he take that?’
‘He didn’t take a lot of persuading. Young men love all that spy stuff: the tap on the shoulder and the whisper in the ear. He was intrigued and a little flattered. He had been there for some weeks and I know from my own army days that there is nothing quite like the parade ground to knock the idealism out of young recruits. He was sick to death of being shouted at and starved, and so I went out of my way to make him feel useful.’
‘What did you say you wanted from him?’
‘Very little. Nothing to betray his cause, of course. He knows that my own political leanings aren’t a million miles from his. I think he already suspected that I was working for the Secret Intelligence Service. I told him I would be interested in details from the front when he got there – relative strengths of the lines, manoeuvres, the usual military stuff. And in return I would feed him information he could use to assist his own brigade and perhaps to win favour with his commanders.’
‘And he went for it?’
‘I persuaded him that if we could paint a picture of the Republicans fighting for decency and honour, we might yet persuade the British to intervene on the side of the elected government. Not a cat in hell’s chance, of course – but it was a message Marcus liked. And so, yes, he went for it.’
‘He worked for you?’
‘Oh yes – and it soon became clear that he was a natural intelligence officer. More than that, he was a good soldier and rose through the ranks of the International Brigades. Kept me informed for months so that I gained a very clear picture of the areas in which he operated. Certainly a much clearer idea of what was going on than the world ever got from official briefings. But then in April last year, it all stopped. Complete silence. I tried to find out where he was – whether he was dead or captured – but not a dicky bird. It was as though he had vanished from the face of the earth. I feared the worst. Bullet in the head or killed in battle, and then dumped in a mass grave. So when we heard you had found him and that he was alive, well, it meant a great deal to us, Mr Wilde.’
Wilde’s gaze shifted from Rowlands to Eaton. ‘And you know Marfield, too?’
‘I met him in Madrid, a few weeks after he was recruited by Guy.’
‘When you were there reporting for The Times, I suppose?’
‘As you say.’
‘You know, of course, about his father?’ Wilde asked.
‘A great tragedy,’ Rowlands said. ‘When Marcus disappeared, Ronald thought – like we did – that he was dead. He fell apart.’
‘But he shot himself within hours of his son’s return. Very strange timing, don’t you think?’
‘Well, I agree it’s odd, but it must be a coincidence. Ronald couldn’t have known Marcus had come back. You didn’t tell him, Wilde, and I certainly didn’t – I didn’t know.’
Wilde nodded. There was still one thing that bothered him. Neither Eaton nor Rowlands had mentioned the rift with Marcus’s mother, or the fact that he had a wife and child. Did they know – or were they holding the information back? Wilde decided to keep quiet for the time being. Let the information come from them, if they had it.
‘So what now?’ he asked.
‘We’re going to find the boy,’ Rowlands said. ‘I want to know what he’s been up to and, more to the point, what his plans are. He might have gone to Spain an innocent, but no one has come back from that war undamaged.’
Wilde understood. For all their urbane maners, Eaton and Rowlands were hard men. Marfield might once have been a darling of the British secret services, but if he had turned against them, there would be no hiding place.
*
At the end of the day, Dr Rupert Weir strode purposefully through the corridors of Addenbrooke’s Hospital until he arrived at Dr Eric Charlecote’s office. Miss Hollick had gone home and the door to the office was locked, but Weir found the key in the top drawer of her desk.
He wasn’t concerned about being stopped or questioned: everyone knew how close he had been to Eric. He had spent many a half hour drinking coffee in this office when things were quiet. Walking in now felt horrible. Everything was as his old friend had left it: the couch with its single embroidered pillow for patients, the beechwood desk with its ink pot, its neat row of six fountain pens, its closed notebook, and the overflowing bookshelves.
Weir sat down in the swivel chair and thought about Eric Charlecote. He could be a bit of an acquired taste, but once you got to know him he was a warm and loyal friend. Steady, too. If he had killed himself – and neither the post-mortem nor the police report on the weapon suggested otherwise – then he must have had reason: the physical pain in his hips, perhaps? And Enid’s death had been a blow.
Well, Eric might have had his reasons, but Rupert Weir was bloody certain he didn’t walk to the Gogs and climb up Little Trees Hill unaided. What a shame the officers at St Andrew’s Street hadn’t shared his doubts.
Weir flicked open the notebook. For a man who kept such a tidy desk, Charlecote’s writing was a nasty surprise. It was a scrawl, pure and simple. Not only that, but from the words that Weir could unravel, it seemed that he largely ignored vowels. He flipped through to find the entry for Marcus Marfield, which, as Eric’s last patient, should be the last one. He found Marfield’s name at the top of the penultimate page clearly enough, but the words after that were a manic mangle of black ink and blotches. Weir tried to take it one scribble at a time, but he couldn’t manage more than half a dozen words, and none of them in isolation meant a thing.
He’d have to get help on this one. Examining bodies and determining the cause of death was easy compared to reading Eric Charlecote’s handwriting. He picked up the notebook, left the office, locked the door and returned the key to Miss Hollick’s desk drawer.
*
The car, a red Morgan 4-4 two-seater, made a healthy growl as Elina Kossoff sped south along the empty roads. She should have been enjoying the car, but something was bothering her. She hadn’t liked the appearance of Professor Wilde at the Samovar. Marcus said the man had followed him, but he hadn’t seemed concerned: ‘What can he do? He is a history don, nothing more.’ But it was her job to be concerned and this was no time for little complications to start emerging. Wilde had brought Marcus home from France; unwittingly, he had already played his part.
Elina looked over at the tan valise on the seat beside her. The weapons it held were more than enough for her purpose. Her thoughts turned to her middle-aged lover and to Marcus Marfield. Lambs to the slaughter, both of them.