Wilde was jittery and couldn’t sleep. He was listening for door handles turning, for windows breaking. At 3 a.m., the phone rang and he slipped from the bed, leaving Lydia gently snoring, and tiptoed past the rooms where his American friends slept.
‘Professor Wilde?’
‘Yes, who’s that?’ His voice on the phone a whisper.
‘Osgood, sir, night porter.’
Wilde did not recognise the voice. ‘I don’t think I know you, do I?’
‘New here, sir. Sorry to call at such an ungodly hour, but the doctor says Professor Dill is asking for you. Said you might be available on this number if you weren’t at home. Mr Dill’s very weak and they don’t think he’s going to last the night, sir.’
Wilde dressed in a hurry without waking Lydia or the rest of the house, and wrote a note which he left on the kitchen table. He put on his jacket and goggles, and opened the front door. He gazed out into the moonlit street, left then right. Was this what they called paranoia? He made his way next door, where he removed the cover from the Rudge, kicked her into life and rode off slowly into the silent streets of Cambridge.
The moon was almost full, so he didn’t use his headlights. Arriving at college, he introduced himself properly to the new night porter, a rough-hewn farmhand of a man who did not look at ease in a bowler hat and suit. He asked after Horace Dill.
‘Dr Weir is with him, sir, but he wouldn’t have a priest. Just you, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ He made his way through the shadowed confines of the college into the old court. For a few moments he stopped on the grass and looked up at the dark window of Horace Dill’s rooms. Was this really the end? So many arguments and so much laughter over the years; the place would never be the same without him.
Horace Dill’s rooms were dimly lit and smelt sickly. Rupert Weir was sitting at his bedside.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Rupert.’
‘He asked for me. And he asked for you.’
‘Is he still with us?’
‘Slipping in and out. The occasional word seems to emerge from his mouth, but no whole sentence. I think he’s asking for his mother. Saw it all the time in the last war: dying boys crying out for their mothers. Heartbreaking.’
Wilde nodded. He leant over and put his hand to Horace’s brow; it was cold and clammy, then turned to Weir. ‘How long, Rupert?’
‘Tonight sometime. Can’t be more specific, I’m afraid.’
‘Does he have any relatives nearby – someone we should call?’
‘The porters don’t know of anyone; nor do I. Should we wake the Master?’
‘Perhaps not. Look – why don’t you shoot off home?’ Wilde could see Weir was exhausted. ‘I’ll stay with him. You’ve done your bit, Rupert. There’s no more you can do, surely?’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks, Tom. This is my second night on a call and I didn’t get any sleep in the day.’ Weir stood up, put his hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a small pewter flask. He handed it to Wilde. ‘That should see you through to dawn. Islay single malt.’
After Weir had left, Wilde took his place by Horace’s bedside. He kept talking to him in a low, soothing voice, hoping at least some comforting words would get through. He reminded Horace of his achievements in a long life in politics and academia, and assured him his days had been well spent. He spoke, too, about Lydia and their forthcoming child. In the end he realised he was thinking aloud. ‘It’s something I never really expected, Horace, not after losing Charlotte and the baby. Now I’m . . . well, I was going to say terrified, but apprehensive is probably a better word.’
He was holding Dill’s hand and was sure he experienced a little squeeze of the fingers.
‘Is there anything you want, Horace?’ Wilde released Dill’s hand and poured a few drops of water into his own left palm, then dipped his fingers into it and touched Horace’s dry, cracked lips.
Dill was a long way away, close to death. His breaths were shallow and infrequent now and it was hard to discern words among the few sounds he was making. Once or twice, Wilde did wonder whether the old man was indeed calling for his mother, but it was too indistinct to be sure.
And then Horace’s eyes opened. They were rheumy and fading, but Wilde was certain that they were looking at him, searching for something, some connection. Wilde took his hand again and Dill clutched his fingers like a man on the edge of a precipice.
‘It’s me, Horace, Tom Wilde. I’m here.’
‘Mother . . .’
‘Your mother loved you, Horace.’
Horace closed his eyes, took several urgent breaths. He spoke again and this time the word was clearer – not mother but Marfield.
‘Marcus Marfield?’
Another long pause, several seconds, and then that desperate whisper. For a few moments, his voice – though quiet – was clear. ‘He loves him, always has . . .’
‘Horace, I don’t know what you’re saying.’
But there was no more. The breath left him in a long sigh.
Wilde sat beside Dill’s body for a few minutes, holding his hands, until he was certain that he had gone.
At last he rose and took a large slug of the whisky. Pulling back the blackout an inch, he saw that it was still dark. He hadn’t brought his watch, but reckoned it must be about four in the morning. No hurry now. He could sit here a little longer.
He held Dill’s hand as it began to cool, then he finished the flask and smoothed the bedclothes so that he looked at peace. At last, he let himself out, went downstairs and walked across the courts towards the porters’ lodge. He would leave all the arrangements in their hands.
Why would Horace mention Marcus Marfield in his dying breath? He loves him, always has. Who did Marcus love, apart from himself? Horace had never tried to hide his homosexuality, so it was perfectly possible he had desired Marcus Marfield, but why leave it until the end to declare it? Horace Dill was not a man to conceal his passions. If he had loved Marfield, he would have shouted it from the college roofs. But in any case, Dill had made no secret of his contempt for the young man. No – he must mean that someone else loved Marfield. Were Dill’s last words a warning of some sort?
Wilde stopped in the darkness. The world around him was absolutely silent. This ancient college had always been a repository of great learning, but this night it seemed to hold dark secrets, too. His gaze drifted around the old court, taking in all the staircase entrances and the black-shrouded windows, before making his way to the porters’ lodge.
Osgood, the new night porter, greeted him. ‘Any news, Professor?’
‘Professor Dill is dead, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘When you hand over to the day shift, let them know. They’ll see to the necessary arrangements. Death certificate and funeral directors, notification of next of kin.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘One other thing: do you know if Mr Laker is in his rooms tonight?’
‘The Director of Music? Yes, sir, I believe he is. He came in a few hours ago, soon after my shift began. He was with Professor Barnes.’
‘Barnes? I thought he had joined up.’
‘I believe so, sir. But I think he’s on leave because he has been in and out of college this past week or two. Apparently he’s been called away to his regiment tonight.’
‘Would you put a call for me through to Mr Laker’s rooms, please?’
Osgood was doubtful. ‘Won’t the gentleman be asleep, Professor?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take responsibility for it.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Osgood dialled Laker’s number, but there was no answer. After a minute he handed the phone to Wilde: nothing but a ringing tone.
‘Come on, Mr Osgood, bring your keys, I want you to open Mr Laker’s rooms.’
The night porter looked very unsure. ‘I shouldn’t really leave my post. Are you sure, sir?’
‘Never been more sure of anything in my life.’
*
Before opening Laker’s door, the porter insisted on pounding it for a full minute, then called at full volume as though his voice would penetrate the solid wood where his fist had failed. Finally, he inserted the key.
The large sitting room had a homely feel. The baby grand dominated one corner, as far away from the hearth as it would go. Sheet music was scattered across a coffee table. The paintings on the wall were discreetly sexual. Wilde was sure he recognised a nude watercolour as the work of Egon Schiele. It was difficult to tell whether the bony, lean-muscled figure was male or female.
‘No one here, sir.’ The porter had removed his bowler as a mark of respect.
Wilde opened the door to the adjoining bedroom. Where the sitting room was elegant and inviting, this compact room was rank with the stench of stale tobacco smoke, sweat, and some other smell that was so out of place that Wilde didn’t quite register it at first: petroleum.
The oversized bed was a tangled mess.
He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing: it looked like a clutter of bedclothes in need of laundering. But then he realised that a man’s body was stretched out on the bed, naked except for a rumpled sheet covering his chest and head.
Wilde pulled the sheet away and revealed the face and tormented body of Timothy Laker. His matchstick arms were stretched out behind him, his bony wrists bound tightly to the bedposts. His ankles, too, were tied to the foot of the bed. A gag of cloth bulged from his mouth. An Egon Schiele work brought to life.
Wilde’s first instinct was that Laker must be dead, but that impression lasted only a moment: the man’s chest was heaving and his eyes were wide open, looking at Wilde in terror.
‘Mr Osgood, come through here would you?’ Wilde wanted a witness to this scene.
The porter followed him into the room and his ill-shaven jaw dropped in shock. ‘Good Lord, Professor!’
‘Do you have a knife?’
‘There’ll be one in the gyp room. I’ll look.’
Two minutes later, Timothy Laker had been cut free and was sitting on the edge of his bed, modesty restored by a dressing gown. Wilde dismissed the porter back to the gatehouse.
‘I think you need to talk, Laker – and fast.’
‘For pity’s sake give me a cigarette, Wilde. You’ll find a packet on the piano. Please . . .’ Laker was in agony, painfully flexing his joints and muscles, trying to get some blood circulating.
Wilde found a packet of Players and a box of matches and handed them to Laker.
‘I take it Marcus Marfield did this to you. You’ve been hiding him here.’
Laker said nothing, drew deeply on his cigarette and looked down at his shaking hands.
‘You told the night porter he was Barnes, didn’t you? Being new, he wouldn’t have known any better. Not difficult to conceal someone’s identity if you move them in and out by night. The question is, Laker – where is Marfield?’
Laker turned on Wilde. ‘I could have died just now!’
‘Are you sure you weren’t enjoying it?’
‘How dare you talk to me like that!’
‘I think, Laker, that you haven’t quite come to terms with how much trouble you’re in. You have been concealing a man wanted for murder. Aiding and abetting a violent criminal. People have been hanged for less – you could certainly go down for twenty years.’
‘He needed sanctuary – what was I supposed to do?’
‘You always loved him.’
‘Who wouldn’t love him?’
‘If you loved him, why did you tell me about Gus Percheron’s complaint against him?’
He shrugged. ‘I hated him, too. Marcus is Marcus. He always spurned me – until these last two weeks when he needed me.’
It was a story as old as mankind; the lover and the loved. And it was always the latter who held the whip hand. Right now, Wilde had other concerns. ‘He’s a killer and I need to know where he is. If you help me, I might even testify on your behalf. And why do your bloody rooms smell of petrol?’
Laker was sweating, biting at the nicotine-yellow tips of his finger; smoke swirling around him. He turned his head to the wall and shook his head.
Wilde suppressed a desire to hit him. ‘OK. Let’s get you to the police station. Marfield killed one of their own – they’ll have a fine time with you.’
‘Damn you, Wilde! I don’t know where he’s gone. I had no control over him.’
‘And the petrol? I saw you with a jerrycan, remember?’
‘He’s been building something – an incendiary bomb, I don’t know. Something he learnt in Spain apparently. I couldn’t stop him. Said he was going to burn some Americans.’
Marfield on the loose with an incendiary bomb, in the early hours when households slept. Wilde felt sick.