Christmas Day at Trinity Villa was a strange affair. Klara’s temperature had come down and she had not developed a rash, so measles was crossed off the list. But she was still lethargic. Wilde’s back was in a bad way. The burns had turned to suppurating blisters and he could not lie on his back. His dressings had to be changed frequently so that the lint did not become embedded in the wound. Even in this wintry cold he spent much of the time wandering around the house with his shirt off. The hospital said he had been lucky, the flame being played up and down his back had meant most of the injuries were second-degree burns, but there were small patches where the wounds went deeper into the flesh. He would be left with a long, jagged ridge of scars.
Fortunately Harry Taylor had left half a wardrobe full of billowing Sea Island cotton shirts, and Wilde made good use of them. One day they would have to pay Harry well for the use of his house and possessions. They hoped he would understand.
Lydia had decided that come what may, they were going to have some sort of celebration and would sing ‘Silent Night’ in English and German. She had managed to secure a chicken on her ration card, and roasted it with potatoes and sprouts, which all went down very well. And she had found presents for them all. A bobble hat and a bag of oranges for Klara, a wooden toy car for Johnny and a bottle of whisky for Wilde.
Wilde was mortified. ‘Lydia, I’ve got nothing for you.’
‘I’ll have half the whisky, then.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I’ll make sure you do.’
They tried to make the house happy, but there were worries. He had spent two hours at the police station after his visit to hospital. Eaton had been there and so were Special Branch officers. He told them all he knew, and Eaton confirmed his story.
The local detectives were not really digging too deeply and Special Branch were less worried now that the threat from Charlie Young had been neutralised.
And yet he was still wary of the local constabulary. A beat constable had seen him on the lane twice and Wilde wasn’t sure whether he had been recognised. He had had to avoid going into the house, simply carrying on along the road until he was sure the danger had passed and then tracking back. It wasn’t that he thought the police would be looking for him – why would they? He had committed no crime – but because they knew that Harry Taylor lived in Trinity Villa and was away on military duty.
Fortunately, it was a large house and so it was easy for them to keep away from the front windows where they might be seen or heard. It wasn’t quite so easy to keep an excitable nineteen-month-old boy’s noise down, but fortunately the walls were thick.
*
On Boxing Day, Klara had perked up considerably and she and Johnny were happily pushing the toy car across the floor to each other. Wilde left them to it, and made his way by a long and circuitous route to college. Eaton wasn’t there, but Wilde was able to call him at his home in Chelsea.
‘Actually, Wilde, I was hoping you’d call. I very badly want to see you.’
‘Bad news, I suppose?’
‘I hope not, old boy. You know this impasse can’t go on – not healthy for anyone. So we need to talk. I also have a present for young Klara.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘Well, she deserves something nice. I could get up today. Shall we say your rooms at four?’
‘Will Cashbone be watching you?’
‘I will use my best tradecraft to avoid him.’
‘Unlike me, you mean.’
‘Nonsense, Wilde. You always were a natural at this business.’
*
Wilde was still in his rooms when Eaton arrived four hours later. He had stayed at college because he couldn’t face another laborious journey back to Trinity Villa at the moment. Twice in a day was simply too much. Overdo it and he’d become sloppy, as he had done before when he had been abducted.
When he got home, he would make sure that Lydia got some time out of the house. The sitting around at Trinity Villa, waiting, was bad for all of them. Waiting for what? For the end of the war? The invasion? Capitulation from Cashbone?
Waiting without any end in sight.
Lydia had returned to poetry and was scratching away in all her spare moments when the children weren’t making demands. Wilde had spent some time thinking through a vague idea for a new book on the lives of the Roman Catholic priests in the late sixteenth century. How they survived on the run, hiding in the houses and estates of the faithful. The inspiration behind the idea was obvious, of course. As Lydia herself had said, ‘Sometimes it feels as if we’re stuck in a bloody priest hole, Tom.’
Wilde was at his desk in his rooms jotting down a rough synopsis when he heard Eaton making his way up the stairs. The clicking of his walking stick on stone was unmistakable. Wilde held the door open for him.
‘Welcome – and a very merry Christmas, Eaton.’
‘And you, Wilde. How’s the back?’
‘Pretty bloody awful if I’m honest.’
‘Well, be sure to get it seen to if there’s any sign of infection.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m well looked after.’
‘Of course you are. Now then, let’s talk. First of all, there’s the question of Young – or Jung, as he prefers to be called.’
‘Are you telling me he’s still alive?’
‘Very much so. In better condition than you probably. Flesh wound to the upper arm from Mrs Vickery’s bullet. Cuts and some very nasty bruises from your manhandling.’
‘Plenty of pain, I trust.’
‘Not as much as you endured. Anyway, he’s in Five’s tender care and so far he seems to be co-operating, which could be to Klara Rieger’s advantage – and yours.’
Bobby, his college servant, was away for Christmas, so Wilde had made a pot of tea. He poured two cups and proffered one to Eaton.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No, just like this.’
‘How so then? How could Young’s co-operation help us?’
‘Well, first off he’s well aware that if he doesn’t help us, he’s for the long drop. Whatever else he may be, he’s not thick. He’s been charged with high treason, the murders of his parents in Sevenoaks, Rosamund Kemp at the safe house, Sigrun Somerfeld at Girton, an officer at the home of Mrs Felicity Vickery, who is also now deceased, woundings, kidnapping, possession of a banned weapon, car theft, grievous bodily harm and false imprisonment of yourself. Oh, and entering the country as the agent of a hostile power. I’ve probably missed out a couple there. Ah yes, sexual molestation was another. The maidservant in Sevenoaks.’
‘So the future doesn’t look too bright for Charlie Young.’
‘Indeed not. He’s never going to be let out of clink. But he could just save his miserable skin by working on our behalf.’
‘Explain.’
‘Well, in the first instance I want him to communicate to his master in Germany that Klara Rieger is dead and her body disposed of. We won’t have him anywhere near a radio until we’re absolutely sure of him, of course. The chances of him sending a coded warning are too high. But once we’ve done that, Klara will be a whole lot safer.’
Wilde laughed. ‘You’ve forgotten something, Eaton – the rather large matter of Mr Bodie Cashbone. As soon as he gets the chance, he’ll be splashing Klara’s name and picture all over the newspapers and organising leaflet drops to the Fatherland.’
‘Which is what I want to talk to you about. Now then, I’ve had a change of heart about the girl. I have an idea – but if it’s to work you must trust me and tell me where you’re hiding her.’
‘You know I’m not going to do that.’
‘First listen.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Over the years, Wilde, you and I have worked together pretty well. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but it’s fair to say we have been of assistance to each other. If I do something for you now, however, I will have to go way beyond anything I have done before and you will be in my eternal debt. Do you understand?’
Wilde took a sip of his tea. ‘Carry on.’
‘I think I have a solution, but it will mean betraying my country and, more to the point, disobeying orders that come from the very top of the Secret Intelligence Service. If word of this gets out, my career will be dead and I may very well end up in the Tower. The slightest suspicion would be enough.’
Wilde was definitely intrigued now.
‘You had better tell me more, then.’
‘Will you take me to her?’
‘Look, Eaton. Just asking me to trust you isn’t enough. I’m pretty damned sure, for instance, that it was you who put Cashbone on to Rupert Weir’s house in Girton.’
‘I confess that was me. But things are different now.’
‘Of course, I want to trust you. We all want this to be over. But you must give me some clue what you are planning.’
‘Fair enough. I believe I have a way of spiriting Klara to safety. No one will know she has gone, or that she ever existed. I’m not going to explain more until you allow me into your hideaway.’
‘It’s flimsy as hell, Eaton. I need to talk to Lydia about this.’
‘No, I want your answer now. I’ve already spent too much time on this whole affair. I have operatives to look after all over the world, and they need me as much as you do. Just coming up here today is taking me away from important work. I am offering you the best chance you will get. Give me your address and within two or three days I will come to you.’
‘What’s Cashbone’s role in all this?’
‘He’s not part of it. He’d probably kill me if he found out what I’m doing. This is just me.’
‘But Cashbone’s still here. I can’t see him, but I feel his presence.’
‘Oh, come off it, Wilde. Cashbone is on to other stuff. He can’t hang around Cambridge for the rest of his life any more than I can.’
Wilde’s back was alive with pain, his mind flooding with doubts. He let out a long sigh, then nodded. Trust. It was a word the priests in Elizabethan England must have considered every day of their fugitive lives. Who to trust?
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Eaton, the answer’s still No.’