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  As he stared, a page turned, a book closed, the second shoe dropped.

  An image he’d heard his sister call up on hearing of the end of a friend’s affair came into his head. “Another moth sizzling in the candle flame! Have they no sense! So lovely, so alive and yet they go circling in deliberately to a nasty death and—flash! bang!—it’s all over in a second. You’d think Nature would have equipped the creatures with the means to detect and resist a life threat, wouldn’t you?” Joe had sizzled in the flames before. He recognised the moment. And—no, Lydia!—he had never seen the moment coming. He took stock and understood that he was still alive and buzzing with shock and dismay, but would his scorched wings even have the strength to carry him away from the bonfire? At this moment he just wanted to move far and fast from the scene of his crash landing.

  “I’m sorry, Adelaide. To have been such a lumbering disappointment to you professionally. For having overestimated the value of what I had to offer emotionally. For undervaluing the work you are doing and the woman that you are. At least this time I don’t need to make excuses for my preoccupations. Nor do you. You’ll have worked out exactly how important all this is. Our own dreams and delusions are pretty insubstantial when weighed against the ‘national emergency’ as they’ve labelled it. Though that hardly begins to cover it . . .”

  Joe heard his flat policeman’s tone creeping in and fell silent. He remembered how she hated it. He stood for a moment, defeated, nothing more to say.

  Seeing an equal dejection and acceptance in Adelaide, he opened his arms wide in a last instinctive gesture and, to his surprise, she moved swiftly towards him and hugged him tightly. Joe recognised the farewell hug of a concerned friend.

  “Shall we agree to talk about our own affairs when this is all over, Joe? Much to do. Now, tell me—do I take orders from you, from Adam, or from those chinless wonders in Cromwell Road? I like to be clear about these things.”

  He replied with equal composure. “From me. My first order is—on no account return to Madingley Court or meet any of the inhabitants. You would be putting yourself into danger. Secondly, do what you can to clear up things here for the girls. There’s no one in charge, and they’ll look to you for direction. I’ll ask Adam to post a guard here at the house until matters are resolved and to ensure that anyone who wants to return to London is able to make her way there. Thirdly, communicate through me and me only. Do not return to that church. When you’ve done what you can here, tell Easterby you’re taking a week off. That’s an order!”

  “What about my handlers, as you call them, at MI5? I wouldn’t want them to think I’d walked out on them.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell old Knightly at Oliver House that I’ve taken you into stock. Your job here with the girls has folded but I’ve sent you out on a different but associated task. I’ll also mention the backlog in payment.”

  “This task, Joe?” she began, her voice slow with suspicion.

  “Do you know who I mean by ‘Clemency’?”

  “Of course. She’s small, round and dark-haired. Rather roly-poly and innocent looking. Why?”

  “Adelaide, I’m afraid we may have another engineered disappearance on our hands. Clemency was chosen to entertain a very important person on the night of Mrs. Denton’s death. A person so important any intimate knowledge of him, his behaviour, and the Pertinax connection would have to be snuffed out, gagged, um . . .”

  “Oh, no! What can I do?”

  “Mrs. Denton ran a tight ship. There must be files here in the house? Details of the girls’ real identities?”

  “If there are, she didn’t share them with me. But—don’t look so distraught!—I’ve compiled a list myself while I’ve been working here. Any snippets of information that pop out I jot down in my little book.”

  She produced a school notebook from her bag and began to leaf through it. “Clemency . . . Right. She’s Elsie Jones and her home address is in Hertfordshire. She lives with her grandmother and is still in close touch with her. Granny thinks she’s really doing secretarial work here in Cambridge. Elsie types all her letters home to show how well she’s coming on. She asked me to post one for her one day and I steamed it open before I put it in the box.” Adelaide smiled. “The first and only time I’ve felt like a spy! Are you thinking this might be of some help? It would go some way to making me feel a bit better about this disgusting business.”

  “Yes indeed! Listen, Adelaide. I want you to go back into town. To the police station. Pick up a squad car and driver to take you down to Hertfordshire. I’ll ring Adam from here and set that up. When you get there, interview Elsie. Find out what really happened on that grisly night. Then tell her to go to ground somewhere else, somewhere safe, until you contact her again to say it’s all over. If she never arrived . . .”

  “Leave that to me. I’ll backtrack until I find her,” Adelaide said with quiet determination. “If I make contact, I’ll put her under my wing and take her back to Suffolk with me and do the lying low there. My father would teach Pertinax a thing or two if he attempted a raid on Suffolk. The house is full of shotguns and with a few phone calls he could raise a small unit of the Suffolk Yeomanry to guard the house. I’m a fair shot with a Purdey myself.”

  Joe hugged her again and smoothed back the hair that was tickling his nose, feeling utter trust, admiration and a loss so wrenching it tore at his throat. He could raise no more than a whisper to say: “Listen to me, Adelaide, my love. If you’re going to carry on doing work for the government, you’ll have to get used to ducking and weaving and lying as well as shooting straight. Can you do all that?”

  “Oh, yes, Joe. I’ve had a lesson from the master in self-righteous deception and ruthless efficiency.” Seeing his dismay, she grinned. “Come on! How else do you kill dragons? Thank God you’re there, Joe!”

  Chapter 19

  Adam Hunnyton dismissed Constable Batty, having given him his orders and a signed chit for the keys to an unmarked squad car.

  “It’s for Adelaide’s safety,” Joe had explained. “I want her to be driven straight over to Suffolk. Send someone who can be spared indefinitely, a single man who can stay over if necessary with no questions asked. Make it clear that he’s on State business and is to take his orders from Doctor Hartest.”

  He had not wanted to reveal to Adam that this was the first step in the hunt for the girl Clemency and wondered at his own deviousness. He’d given Hunnyton an edited but substantially correct version of Adelaide’s role in the affair and, in bold stokes, had filled in the results of Ralph Cottingham’s research into the car numbers, withholding the revelation of the cast list of the final dinner party.

  “It’s all moving,” Hunnyton commented. “Rather faster than you were expecting? Anything else I can do, Joe?”

  “Yes, there is. Can you lend me Constable Risby again for the rest of the day? In his Cambridge copper’s uniform please. The navy tailoring opens doors that would slam in the face of a slouch-hatted London gent in a trench coat. I was taken for one of Pertinax’s thugs earlier today.”

  “If you insist,” Hunnyton grumbled. “While you boys are off junketing, I’m here trying to hold a force together with depleted numbers and bugger all cash, don’t forget. Where are you off to now?”

  “North Cambridge. I thought I’d cruise by the Red House in Chesterton Lane and try to get an interview with a real-life commie,” Joe said cheerfully. “Bolshevism, Hunnyton. That’s the key to this whole nasty business.”

  He hoped the man hadn’t detected his lie.

  Half an hour later, Joe, sitting in the passenger seat of the Lagonda, was passing a beef and horseradish sandwich to Constable Risby, rightly anticipating that the lad had missed his regular canteen lunch to drive the commissioner about the town.

  “We’re heading north of the river. To Chesterton. Do you know of a ‘Spring Terrace’?”

  “Yes, sir.
It’s opposite St. Andrew’s Park.”

  “Rather a boring day I have to offer you, Constable. Routine stuff. Now this is absolutely hush hush, you understand . . .”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “What I’m doing is dropping in unannounced on one or two characters whose backgrounds have to be vetted. People in key positions who have to be interviewed from time to time to keep records up to date. There’s a big hoo-ha on at the moment about the dangers of communism . . . I suppose you were aware of that?” He waited for the nod and the understanding gleam in Risby’s eye. “The Secret Services are seeing reds under beds everywhere in London and their anxieties are spreading to Cambridge.”

  “Not surprised, sir!” said Risby, suddenly knowing. “North Cambridge, eh? Hotbed of socialism.”

  Risby pulled up outside number 1 Spring Terrace and sat looking in puzzlement at the modest little Victorian house. It was neat and well-cared for. A baby’s perambulator was parked in the tiny front garden and a football had been left on the scrap of lawn.

  “Um . . . makes a change from the last place we visited, sir,” Risby said dubiously, with the luxuries of Madingley Court fresh in his mind. “Doesn’t look to me like a hideout for a bunch of revolutionaries either.”

  “They roost in some unexpected places, Risby! That’s the whole point. Blend in. Establish yourself in a community. But I expect you’re right. At least I certainly hope so. Come with me, will you? Flash your reassuring uniform and your sincere smile. Take your cue from me. I’ve no idea where I’m going with this. I may be wasting our time. I’m simply aiming to have a quiet chat with the householder.”

  A young woman wearing a flowered overall and a headscarf knotted on top of her head answered when they tugged on the bellpull. The daily cleaner?

  “I’ll have a pound of haddock today . . . oh!” she began, then, popping on a pair of spectacles that were hanging on a chain around her neck, she caught sight of Risby. “The police? Oh. I was hoping to see the fish merchant. How can I help you, gentlemen? Is there a problem?”

  “Madam. Sorry to bother you.” Risby smiled his smile. “No problem whatsoever. I’m Constable Risby of the Cambridge police and this is Assistant Commissioner Sandilands from Scotland Yard. Our credentials, madam. We’re here to speak to the lady of the house.”

  Cambridge folk were careful, Joe reckoned. His warrant and that of the constable were properly inspected before she sniffed, tugged off her headscarf and glowered at them. “And about time too!” she snapped. “Belinda Page. How do you do. If you’re looking for Doctor Page you’ve missed him. Again. Better come in.”

  They followed her down an uncluttered hallway and into a front parlour.

  “I was just going to have an after-lunch cup of tea while the children are still having their nap. It’s a precious ten minutes in my day. Kettle’s just boiled. Will you join me? Kitchen tea all right? Humphrey’s at the labs. He won’t be back before six. No—don’t put on such a po-face! If you’ve come here about the Cavendish business, I can explain everything—well, most things. Probably not the science.”

  “I’m not sure I would understand anyway, Mrs. Page.” Joe smiled at her. “And yes, we’d love a cup of tea. As it comes—we’re not fussy.”

  He stood, looking around him, enjoying the efforts that had gone into making a comfortable but smart space. In past times the front parlour would have been a cold room, only used for funeral receptions, family gatherings and music lessons on an upright piano. This room had been swept clear of traditional furniture and swags of heavy fabric, allowing the afternoon light to flood in unobscured. It had been painted and furnished on a shoestring, but the refreshing eau-de-Nil green and white colours enlivened by a bunch of gallant, late pink roses turned it into a useful and pleasant place. No nursery things had been allowed in to pollute the sophisticated scene.

  Doctor Humphrey Page’s wife took off her overall and showed herself to be a pretty woman in her early thirties, wearing an old Hebe skirt and a silk blouse. Fluffy brown hair spilled onto a round, pink-cheeked and very English face. Her brown eyes (rather short-sighted, Joe guessed) interrogated him sharply. Correctly interpreting Joe’s appraisal of the room, she grimaced and said, “It’s not Mies van der Rohe, but with two children about the place, I have to have one room I can paint white and keep free of their clutter. This is it. Make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll fetch the tea. Mugs be okay? Slice of fruitcake with it?”

  They sank onto a low couch covered in zigzagged Florentine-patterned fabric to wait for the refreshments. Risby, taking in the décor with some surprise, said, “Did you see the stairs, sir? No carpet! Painted. Two shades of green. What’s that all about?”

  “It’s all about style, Risby. Belinda Page has it. Raising two children on a scientist’s salary can’t leave much over and when you’re having to compete in a cutthroat academic world with its conventions, its jealousies and its bosses’ sharp-tongued wives, you have to make your mark cheaply but with style and humour. I admire it.”

  In came Mrs. Page carrying a tray and they began to talk politely about Cambridge affairs and the wonderful weather. Joe answered eager questions about Scotland Yard as they sipped their tea.

  A sudden clumping on the stairs and a wail disturbed the douce tea party. A small boy, pink and tousle-headed, staggered into the room, fixing a challenging gaze on his mother. “You said you’d take me to the park with my football if I did a good sleep, Mamma, and now you’ve got visitors.”

  He glowered at the two intruders.

  Summing up the situation, Risby shot to his feet. “And what might be your name, young sir?”

  “Timothy.”

  “Well, Timothy, it’s your lucky day! I’m good at football. Play for the police team. Why don’t we pick up that ball from the front lawn, nip over the road and practice a few skills?”

  “Oh, I say, Constable! Would you? He’d just love that!” Belinda was all grateful smiles. “Off you go then! Remember to have a pee before you set off, Timmy! Tiptoe down the path and don’t wake little Freddie!”

  “Well now! Tell me all,” Joe invited, when the silence returned. “Your husband has some concerns about the organisation . . . the staff . . . at the laboratory where he works. Are his concerns of a political, security-of-the-nation nature? Does he confide in you?”

  “Of course he does! Look—can we get one thing straight before we proceed, Commissioner? I am as sharp as my husband. I was a chemistry student before we married and marriage and motherhood have not quite yet softened my brain.”

  Mrs. Page went on to outline her husband’s career in the Cavendish establishment, mentioning illustrious names Joe felt he was getting accustomed to hearing. She sketched in neatly the social problems of working in such a talented and competitive group, hinting that Doctor Page, a specialist in magnetism, had been overlooked for promotion. Plum research projects had been awarded to foreign scientists. He was not the only one to harbour such grievances.

  “But things seem to have taken a more serious turn of late?”

  “Yes. Vastly more urgent than a scrabbling after recognition and advancement. We didn’t know what to do . . . whom to approach. We decided not to go to the Cambridge police. They’re hand in glove, Humphrey says, with the top echelons. The ‘champagne coppers’ Humphrey calls them. Always there at celebrations and drinks parties, glittering with gold braid and chests covered in medals. A college friend of his gave him a number to ring in London. Humphrey was relieved. Just the words ‘Cavendish’ and ‘Cambridge’ seemed to get him interested. It was an easy conversation he had. He was invited down to talk to someone in the security service. He had the feeling he wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. About the spying. Sorry. It sounds melodramatic, but I don’t know what else to call it.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Ages ago. In the summer recess. August, I thi
nk.”

  “And the upshot was?”

  “They thanked him and told him to keep his eyes and ears open and they’d contact him when the time was right. They made him sign a secrecy document of some sort. Honestly I thought they were just fobbing him off.”

  “Mrs. Page, does the name ‘Hermes’ ring a bell with you?”

  She smiled. “Of course. A joke! The messenger god in winged sandals with responsibilities for science and information. Humphrey’s code name! Their suggestion. It made me even more certain that they were having a laugh at his expense. Playing a game of Send-Up-the-Scientist? By their rules, I’m half expecting you to tell me you’re Zeus.” She sniffed. Peering at him more closely, she grinned and corrected herself, “No. With those stormy eyes, I think I’ll make that Poseidon. I can see you stirring up a whirlpool with your trident. But here you are—apparently sane, sensible and clued up. And—for the moment—peaceful. Please tell me I shall have to eat my words.”

  Joe decided not to ask disturbing questions about her husband’s visit to Madingley, which he calculated had occurred before (and perhaps had instigated) Humphrey’s contact with MI5. A delicate matter that could wait until he saw the man himself. But there was something he wanted to establish—an attitude, a moral stance, and this was often best done by playing devil’s advocate.

  He allowed an emollient smile to ease his words along, “I can see why you were reluctant to expose what you were interpreting as a very grave crime against the State,” he began. “Of course I can. But, as in most other countries, our laboratory doors are always open to able men of science whatever their homeland, race or politics. Work done at the Cavendish is not carried out in the shadows—it adds to the scientific knowledge of the whole world. Science has no frontiers, Mrs. Page.”

  He heard the clichés rolling easily off his tongue and was embarrassed, but they provoked a clear response.