As Elina Kossoff pulled up outside the Samovar, she had seen a shadow pass the window of the tea shop. She drove further along the road then stopped, killed the Morgan’s engine, and waited.
The history professor had emerged ten minutes later. Elina’s instinct was to put a bullet in him then and there, but there were too many people around, straggling towards church. Killing the Spanish woman in the centre of Cambridge had been risky enough. Tom Wilde had been there at her side. Now he was breaking into the Samovar – but why? What was he looking for? She relaxed; there was nothing to find. She didn’t make mistakes . . . did she?
Marcus was the one who made mistakes. He was the loose cannon. His visit to the Samovar had been reckless.
At first, Cambridge had seemed a good, quiet place to hide in plain sight, but if MI6 was here and Professor Wilde was sniffing about it was no longer safe.
*
Timothy Laker was emerging from the chapel as Wilde strode along the path towards the old court.
‘Laker, a word if I may. Have you seen anything of Marcus Marfield in the last couple of days? He seems to have disappeared from view.’
The Director of Music smiled broadly. ‘He was in the chapel only about two and a half hours ago. Already there when I turned up ahead of Matins, waiting for me. Wanted to sing Ave Maria again. He seems obsessed with it.’
‘Did he give you any indication of what he’s up to?’
Laker ran his fingers through his thinning fair hair. ‘What do you mean? What’s going on, Wilde?’
‘I wish I knew. Do you have any idea where he might be now?’
‘His rooms?’
It was worth a look. ‘If you see him, try to make contact with me without scaring him away. I think he’s trying to avoid me.’
*
Lydia had been having a rest on the sofa when the telephone rang. She picked it up.
‘Hello?’
After a short pause a strange metallic voice came through. ‘Is that you, Lydia? Is Tom there?’
‘Jim? I’m afraid Tom’s out.’
‘Oh, well, I said I’d call when I had news. It’s not looking good. I spoke to the captain of the City of Flint by radio-telephone, and Juliet and William are not aboard, and nor is there anyone answering their description. Coastguard cutters have taken off the worst of the injured, and they’re not among them. The Flint was our last hope.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s worse. I’ve spoken to the Donaldson line again and they tell me that all lifeboats are now accounted for.’
‘Oh Jesus, Jim . . .’
‘This line is breaking up. Will you tell Tom I’m returning to London with Henry, please? Jack Kennedy’s already returned – he has an important family celebration to go to – and I’ll be following him down south today, assuming the trains are running.’
*
Wilde looked for Marfield in his rooms, but there was no sign of him. Back in his own set, he took the bullet, unfired and still encased in its cartridge, from his pocket and placed it, pointing upwards, on the desk. He guessed it was a .45. He was sure that the revolver found beside Eric Charlecote’s body up on the Gogs had been that calibre. Rupert Weir would know. Grabbing the bullet, he shoved it deep into his trouser pocket and strode from his rooms and out of the college, taking Trumpington Street southwards at a farmer’s pace.
Weir was just emerging from the mortuary when Wilde found him.
‘Anything of interest?’
‘No one you know. An old fellow put his head in the gas oven. Sad little tragedy, Tom. But why are you here?’
‘I want you to look at this and tell me if it could have been fired from the Smith and Wesson found up on Little Trees Hill.’ He removed the bullet from his pocket, held it between thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it into Weir’s palm.
Weir turned it this way and that. ‘It’s a .45, no doubt about it. I’ve seen the gun and the bullet my colleague pulled from Eric’s head, and it could well be a match. I’ll have to see them side by side to give you a firmer opinion, though. Where did you get it?’
‘I can’t say at the moment – you’ll have to trust me. Look, we need to talk with Philip Eaton. He’s at the Bull. Until now this has all been speculation and surmise. This is solid evidence.’ Unfortunately he had to acknowledge that it was evidence that was unlikely to find its way into a court of law.
*
Ten minutes later, Wilde was in Eaton’s hotel room, revealing his discovery of the bullet. Eaton remained silent for a full minute, and then winced as he eased himself back into the room’s solitary armchair.
‘You’re in pain?’ Wilde asked.
‘Always, old boy. Where’s Dr Weir?’
‘Looking for the Charlecote bullet. The hospital has entrusted it to the police, so he’s gone around to get it.’
‘But he’s pretty sure it’s a match?’
Wilde nodded.
‘And you found this under Elina Kossoff’s bed? What on earth did you think you were up to, going in there like that?’
‘I thought you wanted me to investigate the Samovar.’
‘I don’t remember suggesting you break in.’ Eaton attempted to smile, but it looked more like a grimace of pain.
As he spoke, the door opened, Weir’s large tweedy figure filling the frame. He was holding up a brown manila envelope. ‘Good day to you, Mr Eaton.’
‘Glad to see you, Dr Weir. Do you have it?’
‘Indeed I do. The duty sergeant had to call Inspector Tomlinson at home. He was reluctant to let evidence out of the station, but when I mentioned your name, he weakened.’ Weir removed the Charlecote bullet from the envelope and placed it side by side with the Kossoff bullet on the bedside table. ‘Well, obviously, one’s been fired and damaged by contact with bone and the other is pristine, but I’d say they were from the same batch.’
‘That’s all I need,’ Eaton said. ‘I’m not sure what Marfield and Miss Kossoff are up to, but I have no doubt that they are working for our enemies. They must be picked up and either charged or interned.’
‘He’s not at college. I just checked,’ Wilde said.
‘Well, I want every officer in the county on his tail. The whole country if necessary. And we’ll need photographs distributed. We have surveillance pictures of Miss Kossoff, perhaps you would find one of Marfield, Wilde? I’m sure the college will have one. Pass me the telephone, would you, Dr Weir?’
*
The only college photograph Wilde could find was a small, grainy one of the choir, Marfield looking away, his head blurred by movement. It wouldn’t do.
‘Why do you need it, Wilde?’ Tim Laker asked.
‘I’d rather not say, just for the moment.’
‘Well, his mother must have plenty, but from what you say she may not be cooperative.’
The obvious move was to leave it to the police, but when Wilde suggested that to Eaton, the MI6 man wasn’t happy with the idea. ‘From what you say, the mother is not an easy woman, so I wouldn’t want to trust this to a local bobby. Would you mind going down there, Wilde? Damn it, this is not going well.’
‘What’s the matter, Eaton?’
‘Oh, you know, internecine warfare. Strictly speaking, this is Five territory, counter-espionage, backed up by Special Branch. They don’t always take kindly to us sticking our noses in. I’ve tried to explain that my involvement emanates from events abroad, but they’re still sniffy. “Do you really think we have the manpower to hunt down a man and a woman with no evidence of wrongdoing?” is the official line from Liddell. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” The problem is, Wilde, I can’t explain the bullet.’
‘Not even off the record?’
‘Yes, of course, off the record. But while that works with Liddell and the boys at Five, it won’t wash with Special Branch and the local constabularies. I need that picture.’
*
The sixty-mile ride eastwards to Ipswich took two hours. Wilde found the Marfield house with difficulty, on the north side of the town, in open countryside, up a long incline through farmland. He pulled up in front of an old and quite grand Georgian-fronted farmhouse with an overgrown hedgerow and what looked like a disused well at the edge of the forecourt.
It had a neglected air. The gardens to left and right of the house were untended and the gravel driveway was thick with weeds. He noticed a side window covered in boards as though it had been broken. He rang the doorbell and waited.
A woman of middle years answered the door and Wilde knew immediately that she was Marfield’s mother. She shared his startling good looks, though her figure was perhaps not what it had once been. She was tall, almost as tall as Wilde himself. Her eyes were dull blue and her fair hair had a little grey in it. Fading beauty.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I’m Thomas Wilde. Professor Wilde.’
‘Ah, well, good day to you,’ she said and began to close the door on him. He thrust his boot forward to pin the door open.
‘Just a few words, please. I won’t detain you.’
‘I have nothing to say to you, Mr Wilde.’
‘I understand that, but I have ridden two hours to come here. Marcus is in trouble and it is possible we might be able to prevent him doing anything more foolish than he has already done.’
‘I know no one called Marcus.’
‘That is simply not true. I realise that things have not gone well between you, but Marcus is your flesh and blood.’
Margaret Marfield glared at Wilde and then, suddenly, her shoulders slumped and she sighed. ‘You are very persistent, Professor Wilde. Come indoors and I will listen. That’s all.’ She looked down at his dusty boots. ‘Perhaps you would remove those first?’
He took off his boots and followed her through to the sitting room. The room looked as if it been at the epicentre of an explosion. Like the garden, this room had a neglected feel to it with peeling paintwork and a threadbare carpet, and it was in chaos. Papers had been tipped up across the floor, books scattered everywhere, cushions slashed.
‘What on earth has happened here?’ Wilde was shocked.
‘I was burgled. The whole house was ransacked.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs Marfield. Did they get away with much?’
‘They? You mean he, of course. Marcus or one of his ghastly chums did this. And no, as far as I can see nothing is missing.’ She sighed again. ‘I suppose you’d better sit down, Mr Wilde. I’d call for the maid to make us a pot of tea, but I dismissed her earlier today. A widow’s pension will not keep this house going for long.’
‘Have the police been?’
‘What for? I know who did it.’
‘But the police would be interested. They’re already looking for Marcus.’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. What has he done apart from this?’
Could she take the truth? Wilde wasn’t in the mood to dissemble. ‘It’s feared he may be mixed up in something illegal. The details are unknown. But if he can be found and caught, he might be prevented from doing himself and others harm. The police need a good photograph of him. That’s why I’m here.’
Margaret Marfield and Wilde were still standing. She held up her palm and swivelled slowly round the room. ‘See what you can find, professor.’
Wilde rifled through the debris, the broken ornaments and picture frame glass. There were photographs among the assorted papers and other items; of her, of other relatives and of two men he took to be her other son and her late husband. But none of Marcus.
‘I burnt them all. You’ve had a wasted journey.’
Wilde had never met someone as intransigent as this woman. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose I have.’
‘I’ll show you out.’
At the front door, her face was a cold, hostile mask. And yet he turned to her and smiled as he was putting his boots back on. ‘Whatever differences you have between you, whatever he has done here, there is also the matter of an innocent child – your grandson. His name is Walter. If you like, I could pass on some message to him and his mother for you. It’s not that far from Ipswich to Cambridge, you know.’
She shook her head, but he wondered if she seemed less decisive.
Despite the woman’s coldness, he couldn’t help but pity her. Was she all alone in the world? ‘This is a very difficult time for you, Mrs Marfield. Do you have any help? Your elder son, Ptolemy, isn’t far away, is he?’
‘Toll? What is he to do with all this?’
What indeed? Wilde wondered. Her sharp reaction to her firstborn’s name posed yet more questions in his mind. Precisely what role did Ptolemy Marfield play in this tragic family? He was certainly involved – his reaction on the phone proved that.
She was pushing at the door. ‘I do not care to discuss personal matters with you or anyone else, Mr Wilde.’
‘Please, one more thing, are you sure it was Marcus who broke into the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Because he rang me and asked for something. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. So quite clearly he came to look for it himself.’
‘What did he ask for?’
‘I don’t care to discuss it. And that’s my final word. I told him he had driven his father to his grave and I wanted nothing more to do with him. I said that from now on if he wanted anything perhaps he should look to you, Professor. You’ve taken him under your wing, haven’t you? Good luck is all I can say.’