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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blind Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
1942. When Frederick Rowlands arrives in the city in answer to an urgent summons, he finds that the effects of war have not bypassed Oxford, which feels more like a military camp than a university town. His old friend and fellow war veteran, Major Ian Fraser, has been told that there is a spy at large in the university and at nearby Blenheim Palace, the heart of British Intelligence. Rowlands swiftly becomes embroiled in matters involving MI5 and enemy agents, but not before a vicious killer strikes. Now the race is on to find the murderer before he - or she - can kill again, and to prevent vital plans for a covert British mission being compromised. For Rowlands, the stakes could not be higher, as a deadly game of cat and mouse plays out .
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1
MURDER IN OXFORD
CHRISTINA KONING2
3
To Richard — with thanks
4
Contents
Chapter One
Oxford was swarming with soldiers. Airmen, too, patrolled its ancient mediaeval streets in boisterous numbers. Of undergraduates, there appeared to be very few, this winter of 1941. ‘Yes, they’re mostly first years nowadays – and those there are will have gone home for the Christmas holidays,’ said Frederick Rowlands’s companion, when the former remarked upon this. ‘All except for the Indian students – too far for them to go, even during peacetime. Now they’re stuck here in this beastly climate for the duration, poor devils.’
Rowlands grunted his appreciation of this fact, as he huddled deeper into his army greatcoat, which had stood him in good stead in weather like this for many years. Falling into step with his guide, as both strode briskly along the Broad, he wondered how soon he would hear a more satisfactory explanation of the summons he had received forty-eight hours ago, saying – in so many words – that he should come as quickly as possible.8
There’s something I need your help with – urgently.
That had been the line that had stood out most starkly from the letter Edith had read to him two nights before, and that had prompted Rowlands to drop everything – his work, his family life – and take the train from Brighton to Oxford station, where the sender of the letter, his friend and mentor, Sir Ian Fraser, had met him. ‘Because it’s not like the major to make a fuss about nothing,’ said Rowlands, discussing this extraordinary missive with his wife – his use of Fraser’s wartime rank a habit he found hard to drop.
‘If he says it’s urgent, it must be urgent,’ said Edith, who had known Ian Fraser since her days as a VAD at St Dunstan’s, the institute for war-blinded servicemen of which Fraser was the head, and to which her husband had belonged since being invalided out of the army towards the end of the last war. ‘You have to go, Fred. He sounds really worried.’
Only now, instead of getting straight to the point about what was troubling him, the major was talking about anything other than that – the fact that so many students had left to join up, so that the university had virtually been emptied out overnight; the large numbers of men from all branches of the services who’d taken their place … ‘Women, too, it might surprise you to know.’
Rowlands, with two daughters engaged in war work – one with the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – murmured that he wasn’t at all surprised.
‘Of course, there haven’t yet been any air raids in Oxford,’ the major went on, as they turned right along 9Turl Street. ‘The undergraduates still have to do their share of fire-watching, though. Most of the colleges – those not requisitioned by the army – have organised drills. Much as we do at St Dunstan’s,’ added the head of this institution. ‘One has to do one’s bit, I suppose.’
Rowlands felt he had heard enough. To have come all this way, in the biting cold (surely he’d felt a few flakes of snow?) only to listen to his friend ramble on about a lot of inconsequential stuff, was too much. ‘Major …’ he began, but the other put a hand on his arm, as if in warning.
‘We go in here,’ he said, adding in a low voice, ‘I’ll put you in the picture as soon as we’re alone.’
They passed through a gateway, with the major’s guide dog, Heidi, an Alsatian bitch, preceding them – at once attracting the attention of the college porter, who left his lodge in order to make a fuss of the animal, ‘Who’s a lovely girl, then?’
‘Any messages for me, Dobbs?’
‘No, sir … Least, Professor Challoner asked if you was back yet, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I’ll be seeing him later. Put Mr Rowlands’s bag in the top guest room, will you? Thank you, Dobbs. A good man,’ said the major to Rowlands, as the two of them, with Heidi padding alongside, crossed the grassy quadrangle to the first of the college’s mediaeval buildings. ‘Lost an arm in the last show. Came out of retirement when his predecessor, Samuel Noakes, joined up.’
Rowlands nodded. It was a familiar story. Since the onset of hostilities, many such jobs had been filled by those too old to fight – or by women, in some cases. ‘Can’t you 10give me at least an idea—’ he began, but again the other cut him off.
‘Welcome to Brasenose,’ he said, directing his friend with a touch on the arm to turn left. ‘This part of it’s called Old Quad.’ They crossed what Rowlands sensed from the sudden quiet after the bustle of the streets to be a wide grass-covered space, and passed through another gate into the building. A few more steps brought them to a door. ‘We’ll talk in here. It’s the senior common room. We shouldn’t be disturbed until the hordes come in at teatime.’
The room, which was large, had the distinctive smell of most rooms dedicated to masculine society: a compound of stale tobacco smoke, worn leather upholstery, and the faintly musty odour of ancient tweeds. It was at least warm, with a log fire crackling in the large stone fireplace that took up much of one side of the room. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ said Major Fraser. ‘There’s a wing chair on one side of the fire – and another on this side,’ he added, taking a seat. ‘I think we’ve got the place to ourselves. Hello,’ he called, raising his voice slightly. ‘Anybody here?’
There was no reply to this tentative enquiry. It seemed that they were indeed alone, and so, after both had thrown off their coats, and lit cigarettes, Fraser began speaking without further ado. ‘I may have mentioned at some time in the past that I knew someone in British Intelligence during the last war,’ he began, then, to the dog, ‘Settle down, Heidi! She’s still young,’ he said apologetically, but Rowlands wondered if it was more than that. Dogs were sensitive creatures, he knew. Was there someone else in the room after all? He dismissed the thought, and concentrated on what Fraser had said.11
‘I believe you did mention it,’ he replied.
‘Thought I had. Interesting chap, Challoner. Of course, we were both young men at the time,’ the major went on. ‘Same battalion. Thrown together – the way one was, at that time. I expect you remember …’
‘Yes,’ said Rowlands.
‘Brainy chap, old Challoner, even then. Of course, they soon picked him for special duties. Listening in to the enemy’s signals. All very hush-hush, you know.’ He was silent a moment, as if transported back to those far-off days, when living so close to death had given life a peculiar intensity. ‘Then I got my Blighty one – invalided out – as you were, too, Rowlands, and that was the last I saw of Donald Challoner for many years. Imagine my surprise when I turned up at a college reunion dinner – it must have been ’38 or ’39 – to find he’d ended up back in Oxford. Professor of classics, no less. Always was a clever fellow. Still acts as a kind of advisor to MI5, I gather. They’re based at Blenheim Palace, would you believe? Challoner’s highly regarded by that crowd, from all I hear.’
He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. Once more the dog at his feet stirred uneasily, and let out a soft growl. ‘Be quiet, Heidi! Anyway, we kept in touch after that – the occasional letter, you know – although we were both pretty busy, with one thing and another.’
Rowlands smiled at this characteristic understatement on his friend’s part. In recent years, Ian Fraser had combined running an organisation – St Dunstan’s – catering to the needs of several hundred war-blinded members and their families, with being a Member of Parliament.
‘Then, a fortnight ago, I received a letter from the 12principal at Brasenose, inviting me to a reception for the “Men of 1914” – that’s when I was up, you know. Never took my degree, as I joined up the following year. After that …’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Things took a different course for me, as they did for you, Rowlands.’
Both were silent a moment, thinking of all that had passed since the fateful day – in July 1916 for Fraser; almost exactly a year later, for Rowlands – when both had received the wounds that took away their sight, and changed their lives forever.
‘Anyway,’ Fraser resumed. ‘The wife raised no objection to my coming up to Oxford the week before Christmas – it’d get me from under her feet, she said – and so I arrived the day before last. Thought I’d make a little holiday of it, you know. Look up a few people I used to know. Revisit a few old haunts. Only as you see,’ he added ruefully, ‘the whole place has been turned upside-down by this blessed war. More like a military camp than a university town.’ He laughed. ‘They say one should never try and revisit one’s past, don’t they?’
‘They do.’ Rowlands wondered where all this was going.
‘But enough reminiscing,’ said Fraser, as if he sensed his friend’s impatience. ‘One figure from the past who hadn’t changed all that much was Donald Challoner. He and I hit it off, as we’d done long ago – only now we were both a good deal older and wiser … Well, certainly older, in my case. One night, we got talking, over a whisky. Most of the other fellows – you’ll meet ’em shortly – had gone to bed. It was then that he told me something very queer. “I’ve reason to believe that there’s a German spy in college,” he 13said. Could have knocked me down with a feather. Then I thought of you.’
‘Me?’ said Rowlands. ‘I don’t see why.’
‘You’ve got form with this kind of thing, haven’t you? Tracking down traitors. There was that case only a few months ago …’
‘You know I can’t talk about that,’ said Rowlands hastily.
‘Exactly my point,’ replied Fraser. ‘You’re discreet. Have to be. That makes you the ideal man for the job.’
‘And what job’s that?’
‘Didn’t I say? I want you to talk to Challoner. Find out what’s put this suspicion into his head. Then find the man who’s been betraying secrets to the enemy. It’ll be right up your street, I’d imagine.’
‘But, Major—’
Rowlands’s protest was cut short by the sound of voices outside the room. A moment later, a number of people entered. ‘I say! Isn’t it time for the tea trolley to come round?’ said one. ‘Must be nearly five o’clock.’
‘Brr!’ exclaimed another. ‘Bit of a draught in here. That fire needs mending … Oh, hello, Fraser! Thought I saw you there.’
‘Hello, Hobson. Our lecturer in modern languages,’ he said to Rowlands. ‘Let me introduce my friend, Frederick Rowlands. He’ll be staying in college for a couple of nights.’
‘Jolly good show! Are you an old Brasenosian?’
‘No, just a visitor.’
‘Pity,’ said Hobson, taking the seat next to Rowlands’s. ‘We’re a bit thin on the ground regarding fellows and 14alumni at present. This damned war, you know …’
Rowlands said that he did.
‘Two-thirds of the undergraduates have left to join up,’ the other went on. ‘Quite a number of the younger teaching staff, too. Oxford’s not what it was.’
‘Too many women, for one thing,’ said another voice. ‘Last time I passed Keble, there were crowds of flappers on bicycles pouring out of the gate.’
‘Most of them work at Blenheim,’ Fraser reminded him. ‘Doing valuable war work. I’m told they keep the whole show ticking over.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the other irritably. ‘But surely they could have been put up somewhere else, instead of at an Oxford college? Hobson’s right. Oxford’s not the same.’
‘Still fulminating against the presence of our armed services, Rawlinson?’ said another of the company. ‘Anyone would have thought you didn’t want us to win this war.’
‘I never said anything of the kind, as well you know, Armstrong,’ protested the man called Rawlinson. ‘Only that it’s changed the nature of Oxford to have all these outsiders here.’
‘Speaking as an outsider,’ said Rowlands, ‘this place feels like a world away from the war. So calm and civilised.’
His remarks were greeted with hoots of laughter from some of those seated nearby. ‘Don’t you believe it!’ said one – it was the jovial Hobson. ‘University types can be as savage as the next man. They just hide it under a cloak of civility.’
‘You disappoint me.’ Rowlands smiled – although he had heard much the same story from a distinguished 15professor of modern and mediaeval languages in what Oxford alumni liked to refer to as ‘the Other Place’. ‘I’d rather thought there’d be higher standards for “Oxford men”.’
‘Oh, I know it all sounds very highfalutin and well mannered,’ persisted the other. ‘But they’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you.’
‘I must say I think that’s a rather extreme view,’ said a man who’d just come in. His was a dry, ironic voice, with an edge of humour. ‘After all, what are we fighting the Germans for if not to defend civilised values?’
‘Hello, Challoner,’ said Fraser, standing up to greet his friend. ‘I want you to meet Frederick Rowlands. He and I go back a long way – to 1917, if I’m not mistaken.’
The two men shook hands, and Rowlands received an impression of a tall, once powerfully built man, now stooped by age and the exigencies of a scholar’s life. ‘1917,’ he said a ruminative tone. ‘I was in signals, then. Trying to work out what the enemy was up to with little more than a primitive wireless set and a field telephone. Not that much has changed,’ he added softly, as – distracted by the arrival of the tea trolley – the rest of the party dispersed itself in groups around the room, each caught up in its particular topic of conversation.
Challoner drew up a chair next to Rowlands’s and lit his pipe. ‘First time in Oxford?’ he said, when it was drawing nicely.
‘I was here before the last war, in my capacity as a sales representative for Methuen Books,’ replied Rowlands. ‘So I’m more familiar with Oxford bookshops than I am with Oxford colleges … although my brother-in-law was at 16Worcester College,’ he added, not wanting the other to think him a complete ignoramus where the university was concerned.
‘I came straight from the army,’ said Challoner. ‘They offered me a place here on the strength of my war service. No one in my family had been to university – unlike this fellow here’ – he meant Fraser, Rowlands supposed – ‘I don’t have generations of Oxford scholars behind me. Ah, here’s tea …’
Over cups of this cheering beverage, the three men exchanged desultory remarks on a range of topics, none of which touched directly on the matter to which Fraser had alluded earlier. The mounting German losses on the Eastern Front, and what this would mean for the progress of the war; the victories of the British Army in North Africa; and the difficulty of getting supplies of meat and fresh vegetables for the college table, were all that was discussed – the last topic drawing in comments from other fellows, for whom it was obviously a sore point. ‘We’d have more food for ourselves if we didn’t have to feed the army,’ said one. ‘Having the officers billeted here has stretched our supplies to the limit.’
Challoner explained that, as of the previous year, they’d had the Junior Staff Officers’ School in residence – replacing the Liaison Officers’ School – and that he’d doubtless meet some of the military element at dinner. ‘We’re entertaining the commandant and adjutant tonight, as it happens. The former’s a very decent sort. Plays a mean game of bridge … I hope you play, too, Mr Rowlands?’
Rowlands said that he did – but with Braille cards.
‘Oh, don’t worry, if there’s a game later, we’ll be using 17my Braille pack,’ put in Fraser. ‘There were mutterings at first about the cards being “marked”, but people have got used to it now.’
‘That’s settled, then.’ Challoner got to his feet. ‘I’m off to bathe and dress. You see we keep up some of the old standards, even in wartime. Gives people a feeling that all is not lost, in spite of wars and revolutions. I’ll see you gentlemen later.’
To reach the guest room meant climbing a staircase and going along a corridor to a second, narrower, staircase that led to what was obviously an attic floor. ‘What with all these army officers billeted in college, we’re a bit short of accommodation for guests,’ said Fraser apologetically, opening a door. ‘Hope this room isn’t too poky. The bathroom’s across the corridor. There should be some hot water, if the army hasn’t taken it all. I’ll call for you in an hour. You’ll need someone to show you the way to the dining hall. Place is a bit of a barracks.’
‘In a very real sense, from the sound of it,’ said Rowlands.
His friend laughed. ‘Oh, very good! Yes, the military element is rather in evidence, just now.’
Once Fraser had left him to his own devices, Rowlands made a brief investigation of the room, which was as spartan as Fraser had intimated. There was a narrow bed, on which someone had laid out Rowlands’s evening clothes; a desk and chair; a half-sized wardrobe. Here, he hung up his coat and, having undressed, put on his dressing gown. There would just be time for a bath and shave, before he dressed for dinner.18
He evidently wasn’t the only one to have had this idea, for he found the bathroom full of steam from someone’s earlier ablutions, and the floor slippery with water. Being blind meant you had to be on the alert at all times for hazards most sighted people didn’t have to consider – a door left ajar, a bar of soap dropped on the floor … ‘Careless young blighters,’ he muttered, as he lowered himself into the regulation five inches of bathwater – bathing no longer being the luxurious experience it had been before wartime restrictions, but at least, he thought, it’d wash off some of the grime of travel.
As he dried himself on the rough and threadbare towel provided, he heard the door handle rattle. ‘Hurry up in there! I haven’t got all night!’
‘Just a minute.’ Donning his dressing gown once more, Rowlands opened the door and stepped out. ‘All yours,’ he said.
‘Oh. Awfully sorry. Thought you were one of our lot.’ The young man who’d tried the door sounded abashed.
‘And which “lot” is that? The army or the university?’
‘Army. Lieutenant Peter Bawden at your service … sir,’ added the other, having taken in Rowlands’s obvious seniority. ‘I’m with the Junior Staff Officers’ School.’
‘Then I expect I’ll see you at dinner, Lieutenant Bawden. Take care, won’t you? The floor’s still wet from the last chap’s bath. You wouldn’t want to slip.’
‘No. Thanks awfully,’ said the young man. ‘See you later, Mr … er …’
‘The name’s Rowlands. I’m a guest of Sir Ian Fraser.’ Then, thinking he’d been delayed long enough, he went back to his room to dress.19
Slipping on the boiled shirt and dress trousers, he did his best with the stiff-bristled hairbrush, until his damp hair was lying flat and smooth against his skull. He didn’t care for the brilliantine that many of these young chaps went in for. While he fumbled with cufflinks and slung the bow tie around his neck, in preparation for tying the thing, his thoughts went to the conversation he’d had that afternoon with Fraser, and the subsequent meeting with the man who’d been the subject of that conversation.
How fantastic it had sounded – the notion that there was a German spy at the centre of British Intelligence … and how dangerous, if it proved to be so! He supposed Professor Challoner, himself an intelligence operative, must have good grounds for such a suspicion. Rowlands looked forward to quizzing him on the subject. Although what earthly use he could be, with regard to uncovering the said enemy agent, he couldn’t imagine. It was true he had ‘form’, as the major had put it, when it came to smoking out traitors. But the circumstances of that affair had been exceptional – not least being the fact that his own daughter had been implicated … Oxford was unknown territory for him.
Chapter Two
There came a light tap on the door, and Fraser put his head in. ‘Forgot to mention that there’ll be a glass of sherry for us at six forty-five,’ he said. ‘Another tradition the college has kept up, thankfully. One good thing is the cellars haven’t yet been requisitioned.’ Then, becoming aware, from his friend’s exasperated groans, of the struggle he was having with his tie, ‘Let George – he’s my scout – help you with that. He’s about somewhere. Used to be a gentleman’s gentleman before he joined the college staff.’
George having been applied to, and the bow tie immaculately tied, Rowlands was fit to accompany his friend – both preceded as before by the latter’s dog – to the pre-prandial drinks in the SCR. This was considerably noisier and more crowded than it had been at five o’clock. The two men were greeted by a buzz of conversation from the four corners of the room. The war was the prevailing topic.
‘… trying to finish my paper before teaching starts up again.’21
‘If it starts up again. How many of our undergraduates will return, do you think?’
‘Oh, Oxford’ll keep going, in some shape or form.’
‘Glad to hear you’re so sanguine. In my view …’
‘… doing very badly on the Eastern Front.’
‘Yes, and with the Yanks coming in at last, things will start to look very different, you mark my words …’ The last speaker was the cheerful Dr Hobson, who hailed the two arrivals with his customary brio, ‘Hello, Fraser, old man! And … Rowlands, isn’t it? Come to join the bunfight? I warn you, the food won’t be up to much – although there’s still plenty of drink, thank the Lord.’
Rowlands said that he was glad to hear it. A moment later, a glass of sherry was put into his hand. He took a tentative sip. It was good stuff. ‘Pre-war,’ said Fraser. ‘So when do you go down, Hobson?’
‘Oh, I’m staying up for the Christmas vac. There’s only an aged aunt left of the family, you know – and she’s in Aberdeen. Couldn’t get the petrol, even if I wanted to join her for the festivities … however festive those would be, with rationing the way it is. As for the climate up there …’ He shuddered theatrically. ‘Between you and me, I’d much rather stay in Oxford. More going on here.’
‘You can say that again!’ said a voice Rowlands recognised as that of one of the fellows he’d met at teatime. ‘It’s like living in a military camp, with jeeps tearing up and down all day, and planes flying over at all hours …’
‘When’s your paper due, Aitken?’ said Hobson.
‘I’m afraid it’s long overdue,’ was the reply. ‘My publisher’s having fifty fits – but what am I to do? There’s a war on.’22
This was irrefutable, and so they all sipped their sherry in silence, until Hobson said, ‘Hello, Quine! Didn’t see you there. Thought you’d gone down.’
‘As you see, I’m still here,’ was the dry response. ‘The only time one can get any work done in this place is when the undergraduates are away.’
‘Yes, and most of ’em will stay away, from the look of things,’ put in another: Rawlinson, the man who’d complained about the army presence. ‘If this goes on, there won’t be a university to come back to.’
‘Oh, but surely—’ began Hobson, but just then there came an interruption from Dr Quine.
‘What the devil?’ At the same moment, Heidi, who’d accompanied her master into the room as before, let out a soft growl.
‘Quiet, Heidi!’ said Fraser, then to the man who’d protested, ‘Sorry, I thought you must have seen that my dog was there.’
‘It nearly tripped me up,’ said the other. ‘Damned irresponsible, bringing an animal in here.’
‘She’s usually quite good about not getting underfoot,’ said Fraser mildly, but Quine wasn’t to be placated.
‘It’s surely against regulations, having dogs in college? I hope you aren’t thinking of bringing it into hall?’
‘Well …’ began Fraser; then came another voice: Challoner’s.
‘Sir Ian’s my guest, Quine, and, as such, I think we can waive the rules a little, don’t you?’ His tone was pleasant, but there was an underlying steeliness that suggested he wasn’t to be budged on this – or any other matter, thought Rowlands.23
Fortunately, dinner was announced at that moment, and the company – having swiftly downed drinks – began to move towards the exit. ‘A pity you had to witness that little outburst,’ murmured Fraser to his friend, as they filed into the dining hall. ‘Quine’s a decent sort, really, but he does have his pernickety side – like most of us, I suppose.’
‘Evidently not a dog-lover,’ said Rowlands.
‘No,’ said his friend. ‘I say, didn’t you say you’d be getting a dog of your own, soon? Jolly useful for people like us, I can tell you!’
Rowlands said that, yes, he’d put his name down for a guide dog – adding that he’d given in to pressure not only from his wife, but from his youngest daughter, Joan, who had long campaigned for a dog – although as he’d pointed out to her, this would be a working dog, not a pet.
‘Well, I think you’ll find it a great help, having an animal to guide you,’ was the reply. ‘Gives one no end of independence, being able to get about without relying on another person.’
‘I suppose it must,’ said Rowlands, still not entirely convinced. In the ten years since guide dogs for the blind had been widely introduced, he’d been one of those who’d resisted this innovation. Because he’d managed up to now, hadn’t he, with the partial sight he retained in one eye and with the aid, in more recent years, of a stick (something else he’d initially resisted). It was the fear of seeming different that made him resistant, he knew. Although Edith said that was absurd. ‘Lots of men carry sticks. As for the dog, it’ll make you no more conspicuous than it would any sighted person. Honestly, Fred, you make too much of 24these things.’ She was right, of course – as she was about a lot of things.
Ahead of them in the slowly moving queue was a man to whom he had yet to be introduced, deep in conversation with another.
‘… best if we discuss the matter later, Commandant. You’re sitting on my right at high table, by the way. I’ve put the adjutant further along the table, with the rest of the army contingent. Challoner, you’re on my left as usual.’
‘Yes, Principal.’
‘Professor Challoner is our classics chair,’ the principal explained to his guest. ‘And this is Sir Ian Fraser, one of our alumni. Good to see you, Fraser. But I don’t think I know this gentleman …’
‘This is Frederick Rowlands, my guest this evening, Dr Summerby’ said Fraser. ‘He and I were in the last show – although we didn’t meet until afterwards. He was one of the first intake at St Dunstan’s, after I took over as head in 1917. Now he practically runs the place, don’t you, Fred?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Glad to have you with us, Mr Rowlands,’ said the principal courteously. They took their seats at the long table, in what Rowlands guessed, from past experience of such institutions, to be a panelled hall. It would be hung with portraits of previous heads of the college, he supposed, and lit by candles in tall silver candelabra. Even in wartime such gracious niceties would hardly be foregone.
Silence fell. The principal murmured a brief Latin grace. Then the company stirred once more: adjusting gowns that had slipped off shoulders, and moving chairs closer or further away from the board, according to preference. 25The wine waiter went round, filling glasses. The soup was served. Conversation broke out, in fits and starts, along the table.
Rowlands was seated next to Fraser (the dog was under the table at their feet) and, with Challoner on his right, was privy to their conversation, and also to that of those opposite: Hobson and Rawlinson. Aitken was beside the latter, Armstrong and Quine at the near end of the table. At the further end, the army predominated, with the commandant presiding over his flock, as the principal did over his. The talk, in each case, was largely ‘shop’, Rowlands gathered – although the principal made efforts to engage his guests from the military end in more general conversation.
‘I take it your men are settling in all right?’ the principal accordingly said to the commandant, who replied that the arrangements were as good as might be expected, in the circumstances.
‘Wouldn’t you say so, Parker?’ the commandant bawled at his adjutant, who was seated across the table.
‘Yes, sir, very satisfactory,’ replied the other.
‘Water could be a bit hotter in the mornings, what?’ shouted the commandant, who was either a bit deaf, or merely used to barking his orders at parade-ground volume, thought Rowlands. ‘Just as well we’re used to roughing it in the army, eh?’
‘Sir.’
‘Speaking of which, how are the latest batch of trainees shaping up, Donaldson?’ he asked another of his officers. ‘Any of ’em look promising?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. They’ve only just completed the 26theoretical part of the course. We’ve yet to put them through the physical training.’
‘Time they were out there, getting to grips with things in earnest,’ said the commandant. ‘No sense in filling their heads with a lot of useless facts, if they aren’t seeing any action.’
‘Well, of course …’
‘Teamwork, that’s what’s wanted. Initiative,’ said the senior officer. ‘There’s no better way of building it, in my opinion, than by sending a man into the field. Give him a rifle and get him attacking a target. Works wonders, with even the weaklings.’
‘Yes, sir. But with its being Christmas in a few days, we’re a bit short-staffed. And then there’s the weather. It’s coming on to snow fairly hard …’ Donaldson’s tentative objections were cut short by the commandant.
‘Stuff and nonsense! “Weather” – forsooth! Why, a bit of snow never hurt anybody. You need to get the men out there PDQ. Toughen them up for what’s coming.’
‘Of course, sir. I only meant …’
Then came Challoner’s voice. ‘I do see what the commandant means about the necessity for action. But I’d like to think that the “theoretical part”, as Captain Donaldson calls it, is as important in training a modern officer corps as the ability to strip down a rifle. Warfare has changed immeasurably in the past fifty years, whether one likes it or not.’
‘I suppose you would say that, Professor,’ replied the commandant frostily. ‘Given that the theory side is rather your stock-in-trade. Spying and sneaking around and all that sort of caper. Dirty tricks, I’d call it. Not my idea of 27how a war should be conducted, but there you are.’
Plates were changed at that moment – the sole giving way to slices of rare beef – and conversation briefly lapsed, to Rowlands’s regret. He’d found it an interesting debate: the man of action versus the man of intellect. But any hope he’d had of the discussion’s continuing was thwarted by the principal’s saying to his guest of honour, ‘Do try some of the ’35 Burgundy, Hastings. I think you’ll find it a good year.’
The commandant’s appreciative grunt seemed to bear out this judgement, and the talk moved on to other things.
Rowlands let his thoughts drift. What with the journey across London, followed by several hours in a freezing train packed with troops returning from leave (and not too happy about it), and then this drawn-out evening, in the company of a lot of men he’d never met before, and wasn’t likely to meet again, it had been a tiring day. For someone for whom the usual visual clues of facial expression and gesture were absent, conversation required more of an effort than it did for most people. He’d got used to this over the years, but sometimes it was too much … as it was now.
And so, as he sat eating his savoury and only half listening to the talk of chairs becoming vacant, on the one hand, or the usefulness or otherwise of the forthcoming Washington Conference on the other, he was startled to hear his own name mentioned. ‘Rowlands has spent some time at Bletchley Park, haven’t you, old man?’
‘I …’ The visits he’d made, during the course of a murder investigation, to that most secret of government departments wasn’t something he’d ever discussed – although now he came to think of it, he might have alluded 28to it once in conversation with his old friend. ‘I have been there on a couple of occasions,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve only the vaguest idea what they do there.’
Fraser laughed. ‘Don’t worry! I’m not expecting you to give away any state secrets. It’s just that Challoner knows Commander Murchison.’ This was the head of operations at BP, as it was familiarly known.
‘Yes, Angus is an old friend,’ said Challoner. ‘We meet quite regularly, in fact – Oxford being a mere stone’s throw from the Park.’ This was another nickname for the place that lay, Rowlands knew, at the very heart of British Intelligence.
Plates had once more been cleared away and the port was circulating. Rowlands was beginning to appreciate what his friend had said about the excellence of the college cellars – and resolved to limit his intake to a single glass. What with his tiredness, and being in this strange hybrid company of dons and soldiers (to say nothing of spies), he’d need to keep his wits about him. Fragments of talk floated along the table towards him.
‘… setting up an assault course on Port Meadow,’ said a voice he recognised as that of the young man he’d run into in the corridor outside the bathroom – what was his name again? Bawden. That was it. Lieutenant Bawden.
‘… of course, Oxford won’t be bombed. Hitler’s given instructions that it should be spared.’ That was the man who disliked dogs. Quine. A strange fellow, thought Rowlands sleepily. Eccentric. But then, most academics were, in his experience. It was spending their lives in the ivory tower, he supposed. Not that Fraser’s friend Challoner seemed especially eccentric. Unless one counted a preoccupation 29with German spies to be indicative of an eccentric worldview …
He was roused from these reflections by a touch on the arm, as, with a shuffling of feet and a scraping of chairs against floorboards, Fraser and the rest of the company rose, and began to make its way towards the senior common room. ‘Reveille at oh-six hundred hours,’ boomed a voice Rowlands recognised as that of the commandant – Hastings, wasn’t it? ‘I’ll want to see you men on parade bright and early.’ He himself, it became apparent, intended to enjoy a nightcap, before turning in.
‘We’ve some pre-war whisky I think you’ll like,’ murmured the principal to his guest. ‘Only a few cases of it left, unfortunately. The Liaison Officers’ School we had billeted here last year made considerable inroads into our supplies.’
Thinking that he’d had quite enough to drink, Rowlands was about to make his excuses and retire to bed, when Challoner said, ‘I’m going up to my study. Care to join me, Fraser – and Mr Rowlands too, of course? There’s a matter on which I’d like your opinion.’ Both said they would be happy to comply with this suggestion. ‘Good show. Just give me a few minutes to change out of this boiled shirt and put on a dressing gown, would you? Never could abide these formal occasions. Can’t think why we have to keep up this sort of thing in wartime.’
The three men agreed to meet up in Challoner’s rooms in a quarter of an hour. ‘Just time for a snifter,’ said Fraser, as they entered the SCR, with the dog leading the way as usual. ‘Scotch do you?’
‘Just a small one.’30
‘Coming up.’
Already assembled around the table where the decanters were set out were what Rowlands privately thought of as the ‘diehards’ – men like Commandant Hastings and his entourage, determined to see the night out with yet more strong drink, as well as a few fellows of the college intent on pursuing some matter of interest only to the academic body over whisky and water. Rowlands thought he could distinguish the voices of some he’d met earlier: the jovial Hobson was one, and Rawlinson, who’d complained about the number of women in Oxford … and wasn’t that the man who’d said his paper was overdue? Aitken. That was the one.
Sipping gingerly at his whisky (which had indeed lived up to expectations), he wondered whether he and Fraser were about to learn the name of the man at the heart of British Intelligence who, according to Donald Challoner, was betraying secrets to the enemy. His experiences a few months before, at Bletchley Park, had taught him that not only was such a thing all too plausible, but that in the search for the traitor, no one was exempt from suspicion. Even in this agreeable company of academics and military men, a renegade might be hiding.
He gave an involuntary shiver at the thought. ‘Not catching a cold, I hope?’ said Fraser. ‘It’d hardly be surprising, given the beastly weather. Drink up! The whisky’ll do you good. Perhaps I should get George to make you a hot toddy, with honey and lemon – if there are any lemons to be had.’
With a laugh, Rowlands protested that he felt fine. He touched the face of his Braille watch. It was a quarter to 31midnight. ‘Shouldn’t we be going up?’ he said.
‘You’re right. Mustn’t keep old Challoner waiting.’
Leaving what sounded like an increasingly heated debate on the merits or otherwise of the college port, and a no-less spirited argument on whether or not non-commissioned officers should be granted dining rights for the duration, the two men, with Heidi padding silently beside them, made their exit. With Fraser leading the way, they crossed the Old Quadrangle and entered a door on the far side.
‘Sixteenth century, this part of the college,’ Fraser was saying. ‘Although there were buildings on the site – halls of residence – much earlier. It was originally set up as a quasi-religious foundation – like most Oxford colleges …’
Only half-listening to Fraser’s account of the college’s early years (‘Of course after the Reformation it was handed over to one of Henry VIII’s minions, who saw a way of getting into the king’s favour by setting up an institution for the education of gentlemen’s sons …’), Rowlands wondered why he felt so on edge. It was tiredness, no doubt. But, as they ascended the staircase that led to Challoner’s rooms, he couldn’t suppress a growing feeling of unease.
Reaching the first landing, he almost collided with a man who was coming down. ‘Sorry!’ he said pleasantly, aware that his physical exhaustion made him less attentive to the sounds – in this instance, the creaking of the staircase – that betrayed another’s presence.
Somewhat to his surprise, there was no answering apology, as the other pushed rudely past him, his footsteps thudding heavily on the stairs as he made his escape. Not quite the manners one expected from an Oxford man, Rowlands thought. And there was something else that was 32peculiar about the encounter – a whiff (could it be?) of burning, which was neither the smell of pipe smoke nor of cigarettes … But before he could identify what it was, they had arrived at the second floor.
‘Here we are,’ said Fraser as they came to an outer door – the ‘oak’, Rowlands knew – that stood ajar. Beyond this was an inner door, on which Fraser tapped gently. ‘Challoner, old man, we’re here …’ His cheerful salutation was met with silence. ‘Hello, he’s left it on the latch.’ He pushed the door, which swung open. ‘Hello?’ Fraser called again. ‘Anybody in?’ Then, when there was no reply, ‘That’s odd. Perhaps he’s stepped out for a moment,’ he said uncertainly, as he and Rowlands hesitated on the threshold. ‘Or nodded off …’
But then came a low groan – as of someone in pain – from inside the room. The dog growled. ‘Be quiet, Heidi! I say, Challoner?’ said Fraser, stepping inside. ‘Are you all right?’ This elicited another, feebler, groan. ‘My God!’ cried the major. ‘I believe he’s hurt …’ Drawing nearer, he gave a cry of horror as the truth of this was brought home to him. ‘There’s blood … and something … a knife … sticking out of his back …’
‘Don’t touch it,’ said Rowlands, knowing that any attempt to remove it might cause further injury. ‘We must get a doctor to him – quickly!’
‘Yes … doctor … hurry …’ Challoner’s voice was so faint that they could barely hear it. ‘I don’t … have long …’
‘I’ll go,’ said Fraser. ‘You stay with him, Rowlands.’
Left alone with the wounded man, Rowlands murmured what he hoped were comforting words. ‘Hold on, old man. Help’s coming.’33
But it was obvious from the other’s laboured breathing that he would soon be beyond help. ‘Listen …’ His voice was no more than a whisper. ‘Something … to tell … you …’
‘Don’t try to talk,’ said Rowlands, but the dying man paid no attention to this.
‘Find … the … green file …’ he gasped, his voice a hoarse croak like a death rattle.
‘The green file,’ repeated Rowlands. ‘All right. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Find it …’ Challoner’s breathing was getting weaker now. ‘Names …’ He seemed to make a final effort, his voice no more than a sigh. ‘Trust … no one …’ His head fell forwards, hitting the desk at which he was sitting with a thump. Blood gushed from his mouth, spattering Rowlands. Its iron-filing smell clung to his hands. ‘Professor Challoner … Donald …’
It was too late, however.
Because at that moment Fraser returned with the doctor. The latter’s reaction, when he saw what had happened, put paid to any hopes that Challoner might have survived the attack. ‘Dead,’ he said, after a cursory examination. ‘And no wonder, with that dirty great knife sticking out of his back.’ He must have peered closer. ‘Interesting design – handle’s in the shape of an eagle’s head.’
‘It’s a German Army officer’s knife,’ said Fraser bleakly. ‘Souvenir of Challoner’s days in the trenches. He used it as a letter-opener.’
‘Well, it’s done for him all right,’ replied the doctor. ‘Wickedly sharp, no doubt. I’ll know more when I’ve done the PM.’
As he pronounced these words, the dog began to howl.
Chapter Three
On and on howled the Alsatian bitch, so that anyone within earshot must have heard it. And indeed, there came a querulous voice from the landing opposite. ‘What’s going on? Can’t a fellow get some sleep?’ Then, catching sight of the still and silent figure slumped at the desk, ‘Good God! It’s old Challoner. Who … who’s done this?’
‘That’s what we need to find out, O’Halloran,’ said Fraser. ‘It is Dr O’Halloran, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘We arrived a moment or so before you did,’ said Fraser. ‘We found him like this.’
Voices outside on the staircase indicated that the news had spread. One of these belonged to the adjutant; another was Dr Hobson’s. The latter said that the principal had been sent for. ‘Shocking business this, very,’ he said. ‘I was just turning in, as a matter of fact. Concert on the wireless I was going to listen to. Then I heard all the shouting … Does anyone know what happened?’35
Before he could receive a reply to his question, the doctor, whose name was McIntyre, said sharply, ‘I’ll thank ye gentlemen to clear the way. And somebody had better assist me with moving the corpus to the mortuary.’
‘Wait,’ said Rowlands. ‘You can’t move him yet – not until the police have been called.’
‘Oh, I think we should let the college authorities take charge,’ said Hobson. ‘After all, we’ve the army billeted here – and the military police – if we need to investigate further. Involving the regular police will only complicate matters, surely?’
‘Not when it’s a case of murder,’ said Rowlands.
The fellows of Brasenose College were assembled in the senior common room, together with those members of the military contingent billeted at the college. Each of them awaited his turn to be interviewed by the police. It was half past one in the morning, and Rowlands, who had yet to go to bed, was feeling the curious wide-awakeness that extreme fatigue can bring about. Beside him sat Fraser, who seemed prone to dropping off – jerking awake every few minutes with an exclamation – ‘What? Who?’ – only to fall asleep again. It had been a long night, thought Rowlands, and it would get longer before any of them were released. From around the room came subdued mutterings from those fellows who hadn’t yet given in to drowsiness.
‘Think it’ll take much longer?’
‘The principal’s been in there hours.’
‘Wonder if old Crampton could rustle us up some coffee?’
As if by common consent, no one in the room referred 36to the horrible event that had caused them to be detained there at the pleasure of the local constabulary. These – the Oxford City Police – were certainly taking their time, Rowlands thought, although it might well be that the delay was a consequence of having to wait for a higher authority – MI5 – to take charge of the investigation. Because it seemed clear to him that, had it not been for the dead man’s alleged involvement with this secretive organisation, he might not now lie in the mortuary, with a German dagger in his back.
He nudged his friend awake. ‘I say, Fraser …’
‘What? Who?’ muttered the other but he roused himself at last. ‘Sorry! Can’t think what’s come over me.’
‘Fancy a walk to clear your head?’
‘Good idea.’
But when the two men, having navigated their way past the rows of somnolent fellows, reached the doors of the SCR, a uniformed policeman blocked their exit. ‘Where might you gentlemen be going?’
‘Just for a breather,’ was Rowlands’s reply.
‘Sorry, sir, but my orders is you’re all to stay in here until the inspector calls you.’
‘Whatever you say, Constable.’
‘Who’s a nice doggie, then?’ said the young man, reaching to pat Heidi. ‘Good as gold, you are, ent you, my lovely?’
‘A word,’ said Rowlands to his friend, while the officer was thus distracted. ‘I think, when the time comes, we should be circumspect about … ah … our friend’s suspicions.’
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Fraser, who seemed to have 37shaken off his lethargy. They resumed their seats. ‘Wouldn’t do to … well, alert the wrong person that we’re on to him.’
‘No.’
‘Although it has struck me,’ Fraser went on, in a low voice, ‘that somebody must already have heard something for this to have happened.’
‘I was thinking the same. This “somebody” you refer to must have felt himself in danger of being exposed. Which is why our friend had to be silenced.’
‘Take a seat, sir, if you please.’ Inspector Dimmock of the Oxford City Police was a man in late middle-age, Rowlands judged from his voice; perhaps he, too, had been called back from retirement when the war came. He sounded far from pleased at having been hauled out of bed on a freezing December night in order to interrogate fifty or so potential suspects – most of them members of the same Oxford college – about the suspicious death of one of their number. ‘All right, Mr … er … Rowlands, isn’t it? I gather that you were one of the first to find the … er … deceased.’
