Diana's Altar Page 23

  Belinda Page stabbed Joe with a look as sharp as a gimlet and said crisply, “Well thank you for coming. I’ll get your hat.”

  She shot to her feet, then, before he could get up, she rounded on him. Joe had the impression he was about to be attacked by a very angry, brown hen.

  “Claptrap! We examined those contentions long ago, Commissioner. Exhaustively. We are still left with the conviction that there’s something chillingly reprehensible going on in Cambridge. The centre of the vortex is in those laboratories. That little clique of golden boys bobs along on a small patch of calm sea, in the eye of the storm, making wondrous discoveries, recognised and fêted by the whole world when outside, all around their haven, chaos swirls. Have you any children, Commissioner?” she finished abruptly.

  Taken aback, Joe said evasively, “I’m not married.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I have two boys—three if you count Humphrey—and I don’t want some years from now to see them blasted to smithereens by a wickedness spawned and hatched here in this town and shipped off around the world to the highest bidder.”

  “Bravo! My thoughts exactly! I needed to be sure of your conviction, Mrs. Page. Now—to do something about it. It’s been festering long enough.”

  She breathed deeply and sank back down onto the sofa. “Thank God! If this were a boil, I’d say it was coming to a head and about to burst painfully over all concerned.”

  At that moment the telephone rang in the hallway and the baby outside in the pram woke up and began to cry.

  “You answer the phone,” Joe said firmly. “I’ll fetch Freddie in for you.”

  He returned moments later patting the back of a red-faced infant drooling stickiness onto the shoulder of his tweed jacket. “There, there, little man! Mamma’s right here. Hush now or I shall have to arrest you for disturbing the peace . . . shush . . . shush,” he crooned.

  Belinda smiled and murmured into the phone, “You heard rightly. There is a man in the house, yes. A rather surprising one! He’s dark and handsome and seems to be good with babies. You’d better get home at once, Humphrey! No. Wait. I’ll put him on. Can you talk?”

  She passed the receiver to Joe and took Freddie in exchange. “He’s at the lab so he can’t talk freely. Fix something up!”

  Joe took the phone and, feeling slightly foolish murmured: “Er, is this Hermes? . . . Good . . . I shall be in the Snug Bar of the Anchor at six o’clock. I’ll be in evening dress—I’m going on somewhere afterwards.”

  “I’ll put my best sandals on! See you there! Mine’s a pint of Adnams if you’re getting them in,” said a young and hearty voice and the phone rang off.

  “Enjoy your football, Risby?” Joe asked when they eventually set off again in the Lagonda.

  “I did! That’s a good little dribbler for his age.”

  “I’m guessing you have little brothers.”

  “Four! All of ’em players! Um . . . sir . . . ?”

  “All’s well, Risby. They passed my test with flying colours.”

  “Glad to hear it! Where are we off to now, sir?”

  “A quick inspection and possible exchange of information. I think we’ve got time. Go south of the river again and out to one of the villages . . . Harston. The Old Hall. Do you know it?”

  “Calling on his nibs are we? That’s where the chief constable lives.”

  “Right. The ‘champagne coppers of Cambridge’ is what Mrs. Page called your bunch, Risby. Any justification for that, would you say?”

  Risby grunted. “For most of us a half-pint of bitter is a treat! But the upper echelons . . . well . . . they do like to get their photos in the local rag, champagne glass in hand. Arnold Baxter graces many an occasion with his polished presence,” he added with asperity, probably quoting from the Evening News.

  “The governor? Superintendent Hunnyton? Does he present his impressive profile for the cameras?”

  The constable’s face softened and he shook his head. “Not so’s you’d notice. He can’t stand stuff like that . . . smarming . . . masonry . . . funny handshakes . . . As soon as a photographer appears, he turns his back. Mind, he’s had to grit his teeth and show his social side lately. Chief Baxter’s been taking a bit of a backseat. The super has more on his plate than he ought to have. Filling in for the old feller.”

  Joe asked Risby to drop him in the village street and he walked up the drive to the front door unaccompanied.

  A parlour maid asked him to wait in the hall while she fetched her mistress. The master was out in the garden, she explained, and not to be disturbed, and Mrs. Baxter was expecting some friends for tea. It was not a convenient time. Who was calling? Joe handed over his card.

  “Tell your mistress a colleague is calling on the chief constable to pay his respects. Assistant Commissioner Sandilands from Scotland Yard.” He noted with satisfaction that the magic words had their usual effect of producing round eyes, intake of breath and scurrying feet.

  He was joined some minutes later by an elderly lady in an old-fashioned, lavender tea gown straining over a pearl-swagged bosom. Her grey hair was freshly marcel-waved into narrow furrows all over her head, and she was regarding Joe with disdain and something else. Joe thought he detected anxiety.

  “So? You’ve come for him at last?” she wanted to know in a voice of doom.

  “I should very much like to have a few words with the chief constable,” Joe said in a neutral tone.

  Her fear turned to anger. “Couldn’t you have waited for a month or so? Just until January? What harm could it possibly do? And why do they have to send someone from Special Branch? I take it that’s what you are? I’ve heard about your department and its methods! Grammar school riffraff! Little better than attack dogs!”

  Joe listened to the gathering tirade without interrupting. He learned more when people lost control and gave him the benefit of their uncensored thoughts.

  “Harm one hair of Arnold’s head and I shall alert the home secretary, young man!” she shrilled, bosom heaving. “My husband has forged a blameless career, has an immaculate reputation and I will not stand by and see his achievements ruined at this crucial stage by a graceless, vindictive colleague! There’s a Judas at work here! And his name is Hunnyton! Did that upstart send you? Dead men’s shoes! That’s what he’s hoping to step into! He hasn’t the authority to remove Arnold himself so he persuades his friends at the Yard to do the dirty work for him.”

  She insisted on staying at her husband’s side while Joe interviewed him, and such was the force of her concern, Joe agreed. He was led through corridors and out through a rear door opening onto a garden still green and ablaze with autumn flowers. Under a willow tree to the side of an extensive lawn, wearing a straw hat and gardening trousers, humming a snatch from the Mikado, sat the chief constable of the county. His head was bent over a copy of the Times and he seemed to be busily working on the crossword puzzle.

  “Sir!” Joe called a greeting, hurrying ahead of Mrs. Baxter. “Don’t get up. I’ll join you. Glorious afternoon we’re having, aren’t we?”

  Baxter looked up, his mouth sagged open and, questioning and friendly, he tried to focus on the smiling invader.

  “That didn’t take long, sir.” Risby carefully sidestepped asking a direct question.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Joe said. “The longest fifteen minutes of my life is what that felt like! Poor old Baxter! All’s well, Risby! I found out what I needed to know. More than I was expecting, so chalk that up as another success. No, no! He’s not a communist. Mrs. Baxter would never allow it. You might have warned me about her, Risby! Had you any idea? Now, you can drive me back into town and dismiss for the day. I’m off to the pub and then I’m dining at St. Benedict’s. Busy day one way and another. Go home, lad. Get some rest and come and pick me up at the hotel after breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock suit you?”

  Chapter 20
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  Joe reckoned his choice of pub was a good one. The Anchor was five minutes’ walk from both his hotel and the laboratories, inches from the river and fronting a broad expanse of anchorage for boats. A constantly changing flow of students, local people and visitors drifted by.

  As Joe approached, he stopped to look out over the Mill Pond, admiring the peaceful scene and passing a little time. Good agents, he reckoned, always arrived early—or late. Dusk was descending fast and the temperature along with it. Though the sky to the west was still warm with the benevolent shades of a good fire, cold air was gathering on the water and a mist obscured the last of the punts bumping and disputing places to tie up in Scudamore’s Boatyard for the night. The end of the season. The last punt of the year. Young voices called out wistful goodbyes or invitations to prolong the jollity in the Anchor. In a couple of hours, the place would be buzzing with life and it would be too crowded to conduct a conversation or even raise an elbow, but for now it was perfect.

  Once inside, Joe took stock of the other clients. He was pleased to see two other gentlemen in dinner jackets joking with the barman, so he didn’t feel out of place. He managed to pick up two tankards of Adnams ale and make his way through to the empty snug bar at the rear of the building. He set them down and settled, back to the wall, to watch for his scientist.

  Page came in on the stroke of six o’clock, an eye flicking to his wristwatch to underline his punctuality. He looked around him, raised his eyebrows on spotting Joe and bounded straight over to his table.

  What had Joe expected? Anything but swaggering overconfidence. He registered: tall, gangly, a turbulence of curly hair, baggy tweed suit, college tie, heavy spectacles. This must be a disguise, was Joe’s first thought, so exactly did his appearance fit the Punch cartoons of a scientist. He forced back a smile as Page shook his hand and took a grateful swig of his ale before speaking.

  “Poseidon, eh? Mm . . . see what she means. You’re easy to spot. I, on the other hand,” he announced, “am in disguise.” He swept off the spectacles. “Borrowed them from Belinda. Makes me look more serious don’t you think?”

  Joe leaned forward and confided, “Makes you look a complete arse. Now stop fucking about or I’ll chuck you in the Cam. This isn’t Oliver House, Cromwell Road. A gents’ chat over a cup of Darjeeling and a selection of fairy cakes in Fortnum’s isn’t my style. I’m more the pint of bitter and a knuckle sandwich sort. The tool they use to keep their own hands clean.” He smiled with all the charm of a shark and, turning his head to his own glass, gave Page the benefit of the shrapnel scar across his brow. “This is your one chance. Give me what I want or you’ll float back to Chesterton tonight.”

  Page was gratifyingly startled. He took control of his drooping jaw, swigged some more of his ale, took a deep breath and then, to Joe’s surprise, looked straight at him and grinned. Strangely, his response echoed that of his wife some hours earlier, “Thank God for that! I do believe you would! I didn’t think the fairy cakes at Fortnum’s were taking me seriously. Or had it in them to do anything about it if they were.”

  Joe gave another tight smile. He had Page almost where he wanted him. “It took three murders to concentrate their minds.” He paused to let that sink in. “But they got there. Now, let’s see what you can do to stop that number rising to four.”

  “Ah. Oh. Well, then. How would you like to proceed?”

  “Quickly. Before the pub gets busy. If we’re interrupted, I’ll get up and leave. Follow me and we’ll go for a walk.”

  Page gulped and, not much tempted by the prospect of a riverbank tête-à-tête with a thug in a trench coat, he nodded hurriedly.

  “No gossip. Facts, not suspicions.”

  Page nodded again.

  “Firstly: give me the names of the men you are mainly concerned about.”

  Three names were whispered across the table. Two Russian, one German.

  “Follow that, will you, with evidence. The harder the better.”

  “Not difficult,” Page said, the strength of his evidence clearly stiffening his resolve. “I can give you names and dates. How about, for starters: Andrew Rothstein?” He threw the name out and watched for a reaction.

  Good move. Joe was going to have to reassess this man.

  From his MI5 briefing notes, he remembered the name of an agent recruiter working for the Bolsheviks under the sketchy cover of a Russian Trade Delegation. He’d been judged too transparent and too amateur and they’d allowed him to go sniffing about the place on a long lead. Too long, Joe judged, but the poor cash-strapped buggers in MI5 didn’t have the resources to nursemaid every Tom, Dick and Ivan who entered the country.

  “To whom did he speak and what did he want?”

  “He spoke to Kapitza and one or two of his department. Not me. I’m too low down the scale.” Page took a folded sheet from his pocket and passed it across the table. “It’s all in there. Dates and names. Thought it might save you time. Rothstein . . . Is he Jewish? German? Russian? Perhaps you would know . . . Anyhow, the bloke was seeking someone to supply scientific and technical knowledge to Russia. He was especially interested in information on the new plant for the dilution of helium. Helium gas! Seems to be all the go at the moment. Everyone . . .” He caught himself launching into a diversion and hurried to finish, “That’s only the bit I overheard.”

  In response to Joe’s raised eyebrow inviting more, he added, “And then there’s the ambassadors . . .”

  “At the Cavendish?”

  “Yes. Official visits if you please! Another excuse to bring out the Bollinger. They love their socialising! The delivery boys drop off as many crates of bubbly as they do of lab equipment. Magnums or magnetometers—they don’t stint themselves! Look—I come and go through the labs all the time. Part of the fixtures and fittings, I’m afraid, in as far as the top boys think of me at all. I’m regarded as a sort of superior lab assistant these days. On occasions, I’ve had to drop what I was doing and take the buggers round the labs on guided tours!”

  “Hang on a minute. Ambassadors from which countries?”

  “The Russian ambassador has been three times since the new Mond Lab opened last February, the French twice and the German chap twice. Oh, and the Americans sent a large fact-finding party. That was a two-crate do! All logged. You’ll see the visits seem to be getting more frequent. There’s something brewing. I’m a scientist. I rely on facts. Evidence. I can’t possibly justify the chill between my shoulder blades, the mental terror that seizes hold of me sometimes . . .” Seeing Joe’s eyes narrow he fell silent.

  “Facts. Evidence. Let’s stick with those shall we? For chills I’ll look to Edgar Allen Poe. Were these officials showing an informed scientific interest?”

  “You bet! The Russian bloke even had his chauffeur take the tour with us. He may have been a chauffeur, but he was a damned good scientist as well! Searching questions were put. I resented it. I shifted the responsibility. Played dumb and referred them to Kapitza or the Old Crocodile.”

  “Old Crocodile?”

  “Rutherford. Sir Ernest, now Lord. Cavendish Professor of Physics these last thirteen years, Nobel Prize winner, President of the Royal Society and now—‘Crocodile.’ It’s the nickname Kapitza has conferred on him. They have these little jokes together. He explains it by saying he began to use it when he first came to work in the labs because he found Rutherford so terrifying. In Russian folklore the crocodile is the symbol for the father of the family, he says. Revered but terrifying. It can only move in a forward direction with jaws wide open, ready to eat up anyone in its path.”

  “Not unlike my perception of science,” Joe muttered. “Go on. Are they allies as well as colleagues, the director and the star of the show?”

  “Not all the time. There are differences of opinion. No, wait! This is too important to be reaching for mealy-mouthed euphemisms! There are blazing rows! Hissy fits gal
ore! It’s like sharing a dressing room with a pair of opera divas. In the end, Rutherford always gives in to his demands. Their families know each other. The director uses his clout with the big bugs in government to acquire visas and documents for Kapitza’s Russian wife. Kapitza flatters him and remembers to send him birthday cards.”

  Joe frowned, not much caring for the scene being laid out for him. He could understand the resentment felt by Page and perhaps others. “So, you’re telling me it’s possible that certain elements of the physics team are actively working with or, at the least, well-disposed to enemy foreign powers?”

  Page sighed in exasperation. “No! I’m telling you that they’re bloody-well spying! They’re giving away or selling information that could blow this country to smithereens when the next lot bursts over us. As it will. Intentional or not, mischievous or naively deluded, it hardly matters—the outcome will be the same. Universal slaughter of the coming generation. And do you know what the truly concerning thing is? They don’t care! They don’t give a damn who knows what they’re up to. If they were planning to kill the king, they’d announce it openly, have a jolly laugh and move on. It’s their cover! Scientific arrogance is their cover! How can you possibly be a traitor when you count the whole world your own country? Knowledge is universal and must be celebrated and shared with everyone, mustn’t it? In these brave and enlightened days, there are no secrets, no fatherland to betray, so where is the problem? If you claim to perceive one, you’re ridiculed, relegated to the ranks of the backward-looking; you’re last century’s man.”

  Page heard his tone becoming acid, the volume rising, and he stopped for a moment. “Sorry! I get carried away.” He took a deep breath and Joe understood that he was about to commit himself to an irrevocable statement. “Look here—it would be worrying enough if the views they express were pure academic, highfalutin theory, and they were all self-deluded enough to believe it, but I think . . . I think the insouciance, the laughter, the charm, the openness are the most enormous bit of camouflage. Bluff. Deliberate deceit. It’s a magic show! They calculate that the audience wants to be deceived by glamour, spotlights and a roll on the drums. They’re complicit in ignoring the tawdriness and the risk.” He appealed to Joe. “Am I the only sane man who can see the dangers we’re running? Or am I out of joint with the world?”