‘Marfield’s father left a suicide note, Tom. His wife verified it. There really isn’t much doubt that he took his own life.’
Wilde and Dr Rupert Weir were in the Eagle in Bene’t Street, having just ordered lunchtime pints of beer.
‘Were there similarities with Charlecote’s death?’
‘Not really. Colonel Marfield sat on a chair, wedged the butt of his shotgun against the wall, held the barrel in his mouth with one hand, used the other to pull the trigger. I’ve seen it before.’
‘Do we have any idea what the note said?’
‘The Ipswich coroner’s office read it to me.’ Rupert Weir dug his hand into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘Here, I took it down.’ He handed it to Wilde.
The note was addressed to Colonel Marfield’s wife, Margaret.
A man can put up with shame. But not this loss of hope. Not the discovery that goodness has fled the world. Margaret, he was my life: our perfect son. The glory of his voice in King’s Chapel, those Sundays around the piano . . . they were the finest of days. And now I can hardly bear to say his name. For what he has become, I can never forgive.
Wilde read it again and frowned. ‘Rather an abrupt ending, Rupert?’
‘In my experience there are two types of suicide: the ones who race home and knot the rope around the banisters at speed and hurl themselves into oblivion without a moment’s hesitation, and then there are those who put off the dread moment, all the while summoning up the courage to do the deed. The first never write notes, the latter often do. I think it probably helps concentrate their minds. But then the end, when it comes, can be a sudden picking up of a pistol, the thoughts unfinished, the note half-written. Compared to some of them, this note is reasonably clear and rounded.’
‘It’s suggesting Marcus changed in some terrible way.’
‘Well, he went off to the Spanish war.’
‘And was that so terrible? Colonel Marfield had been a fighting man. Why would his son taking up arms affect him so deeply?’
Rupert Weir shrugged. ‘Perhaps old man Marfield had a loathing for socialists.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Wilde put down his pint, still almost full. He wanted a clear head, and English beer at lunchtime had a tendency to wipe out afternoons. During the morning, he had visited college in the company of Lincoln Tripp. He left the young American in the old court and called on Marfield’s rooms, on the off-chance. He was surprised when Marfield answered the door, unshaven, in his pyjamas.
‘I appear to have woken you.’
‘I’m sorry, Professor. Still trying to get my bearings.’
‘That’s fine by me. Sleep as much as you like.’ Wilde looked him in the eye and wondered about his brother’s portentous words. ‘Now tell me, where did you disappear to yesterday? And why?’
‘I needed air.’
‘You weren’t by any chance trying to avoid Mr Eaton and Mr Rowlands were you?’
Marfield grinned. ‘Am I that obvious?’
Wilde ignored this attempt at charm. ‘They’ve told me a bit about the work you were doing in Spain. They want to know why you broke off contact with them.’
‘That’s easy – I lost my nerve.’
‘Then why didn’t you just tell them that? And why are you avoiding them now?’
‘I’ve had enough, that’s why. I know their type – they never let you go.’
Wilde made no comment. He had decided not to tell him that they were still in Cambridge. ‘So what now? Even with a dearth of students, I doubt whether the Master and Fellows will be keen to allow you to continue your studies once they hear that you have a wife and child, whom you abandoned.’
‘Do they have to hear that?’
‘Yes, they do – and you have to face up to your responsibilities. I visited your wife again. At home in Histon. You have a fine boy.’
‘Really?’
‘You sound rather indifferent.’
‘Well, there you go.’ Marfield shrugged.
‘Interestingly, there was a van parked outside her house. In the driver’s seat was the woman I saw with you outside the Vanderbergs’ house in London. The woman with the gun. Rosa.’
The blood drained from Marfield’s cheeks.
‘You seem shocked.’
Marfield was silent, his mouth set hard.
‘I approached her,’ Wilde continued, ‘but she drove off at speed.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday evening. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems your past is catching up with you. Don’t you think it might be time to come clean about one or two things?’
Marfield was obviously struggling to compose himself. ‘There’s a lot to think about. For the moment, though, I just want to sing, Professor. Think things through. Perhaps I will go and see my wife and son. But I need time. Please. Is that so unreasonable after two years or more on the front line?’
‘Very well. I’ll leave you with your thoughts. In the meantime, I have a visitor for you.’ He opened the door and signalled to Tripp, who approached with a broad grin.
‘Good Lord,’ Marfield said. ‘If it isn’t Mr Tripp.’
Tripp, newly shaven and back to something like his pristine and rather elegant self, stepped forward and the two young men shook hands like old friends.
‘To what do we owe the honour, Tripp?’
‘Oh you know, Marfield, just passing through. Couldn’t resist calling in on you.’
‘Then you’ll have breakfast with me?’
Tripp threw Wilde a wry look. ‘Of course – every man needs two breakfasts. And then I’ll be on my way back to London.’
‘Just let me throw a few clothes on. Professor, will you join us?’
‘No, Marcus, I have things to do. Enjoy your breakfast with Mr Tripp, but don’t avoid the hard questions too long. They won’t go away.’
Now, here in the Eagle with Rupert Weir, he was wondering about Marfield and the deaths of two men, one certainly suicide, the other less certain. And why on earth was Ptolemy Marfield so afraid?
*
As the train carrying Claire and Walter pulled out of Cambridge Station, Lydia felt she had failed. Claire said she had seen something, but had given no hint as to what that might be. What could she have seen to make her leave her home in such haste?
Despondent, Lydia walked back into the centre of town. On every corner there was a pile of sand and empty bags waiting to be filled. What a miserable way to treat this most beautiful of towns.
Even the grand facade of Addenbrooke’s Hospital was undergoing protective work, and the thought that an enemy might bomb a hospital added to her feeling of despair. However, inside the building, everything was its usual bustle of nurses, patients and doctors.
She found Priscilla Hollick in Dr Charlecote’s office, carting a cardboard box of books.
‘Miss Hollick, can I have a word?’
‘Oh, hello, Miss Morris.’ The voice was decidedly frosty.
‘Could I take you for coffee? There’s something I really think you might be able to help me with.’
‘Really? Might that have something to do with Dr Charlecote’s notebook? I do believe it has been stolen.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Very well.’
*
They walked to Dorothy’s and settled for a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Lydia took the notebook from her bag and laid it on the table.
‘I thought you might be the thief.’
‘Actually, it wasn’t me. And I wouldn’t call it theft. More a little light borrowing in search of truth. The problem is, we can’t read it.’
‘Why should I help you?
‘Because you think there’s something unexplained about Dr Charlecote’s death. And because you’re probably the only person living who can decipher his scrawl. Can you read that last entry concerning his appointment with Marcus Marfield?’
Priscilla Hollick clutched her small slender hands together on the table, on the verge of tears. She looked up defiantly. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through all these years. I loved him. His wife’s illness and death, his crippling arthritis – it was so difficult keeping it secret, all the time knowing how the world would judge us if they ever found out.’
‘I understand, truly I do.’ Lydia reached out and covered the woman’s hands with her own. ‘And I would never judge you. If you must know I’m pregnant and unmarried, so I’m in no position to judge anyone.’
Miss Hollick pulled her hands away and furiously brushed the tears from her eyes. ‘So we’re both wicked sinners and going to hell . . .’
‘I don’t believe loving someone is a sin. But murder is – and we are concerned that the man you loved might not have taken his own life. Please, Miss Hollick, please help us.’
Priscilla Hollick shook her dark hair and dabbed again at her eyes. ‘Give me the book.’
Lydia slid the black-bound notebook across the table. Priscilla Hollick turned it around, then flicked through the pages until she came to the last entry. She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to blow her nose. ‘It’s all a bit shambolic, isn’t it? The funny thing is, he couldn’t even read it back himself, relied on me totally.’
‘Did he ask you to marry him?’
‘We did talk about it, but you know he loved his wife, too. But not in the same way. And when the awful cancer took her, he was beside himself. After she died, well it was all too soon. Perhaps next year, he said. But now of course, I’m just an old maid. No one will ever want me.’
‘You’re an attractive woman. And young enough.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘No, I’m worn out and I look it. I’m used goods – and not even a child to show for it. If you’re in the family way, I envy you.’ She sighed, and stiffened her shoulders. ‘That’s enough of that. Let’s take a look at what he wrote.’