Pantheon

Chapter Twenty-three

James wanted to get started right away, but the butler steered him to a mirror. ‘With all due respect, sir…’

The reflection that came back was of a man dishevelled, unshaven and rudely stirred out of a hangover. He had missed one of the buttons of his shirt. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be persuaded that Walters was right: he needed to pause, wash and eat properly before doing anything else.

The bathtub at the top of the house was tiny for a man his size, but stepping into it still felt like a great luxury. The idea of relaxing in a bath of hot water gave him only fleeting pleasure, the warmth and comfort instantly replaced by guilt. From the moment he had discovered Florence and Harry gone that morning, more than three weeks ago, he had rushed to find them. Even when he was sitting at Crewe Station, waiting for his connection to Liverpool, or when he spent those long days and nights on board ship for Canada, or on those slow, rattling trains into the United States he had not let himself relax: he had paced the railway platform and the ship’s deck or drummed his fingers like a man in a desperate hurry. He had maintained the urgency he had felt that first moment, when he had dashed out of the front door of their house in Norham Gardens, calling out their names. He might have crossed an ocean and half the world, but he still felt the fierce urgency of a man who had just lost his family. And stopping, even for ten minutes in the bath, felt like a kind of betrayal. Worse, it frightened him, suggesting a time when he might get used to being without his wife and his son, a future in which he was fated to be as alone as he was now.

He looked down at his shoulder, the bone collapsed, the skin stretched. As the water in the bath began to cool, James remembered how his son, then a baby, had once used his little hand to touch that damaged patch of him, his infant face curious. Harry had never recoiled from the sight of the scar because he had never known anything else.

James realized that his eyes were stinging. Reflexively, to make it stop, he sank his face into the warm water.

Dressing as fast as he could, he made for the Owl Shop. He would pretend his purpose was merely to offer thanks to the bartender who had vouched for his presence there last night. But he was looking for someone else. And to his relief he was there: the young man he had met on his first visit, now polishing glasses.

After a short greeting and a little small-talk, James came to his question. He began elliptically. ‘So what’s all this about secret societies, then?’

‘You mean like Skull and Bones and all that jazz?’

‘Maybe. Assume I know nothing.’

‘Oh, well I’m not a member or anything. Most of them are for juniors and seniors.’ When he saw James’s puzzled expression, he smiled. ‘Oh, you really do know nothing. OK. Freshman, first year; sophomore, second year; junior, third year; senior, fourth year.’

‘So once you’re in your last two years, you can join.’

‘No! It’s not like that at all. Not just anyone can join. You have to be asked.’

This all made sense so far. Oxford was no different: it too had its drinking societies, like the Assassins or Piers Gaveston or the Bullingdon Club. They were secretive, too, in that they didn’t exactly publish the minutes of their meetings, but most undergraduates had a pretty good idea of who belonged to which. The Bullingdon even had its own costume, with navy blue tails and a garish, mustard-coloured waistcoat. Membership tended to be wealthy and aristocratic, young men rich enough to reduce the private room in a restaurant to rubble and pay the repair bill on the spot and in cash.

But the Yale societies — Wolf’s Head, Skull and Bones, Scroll and Key — sounded different. For one thing, they had their own buildings in the heart of Yale. ‘Oh, they’re extraordinary, you gotta see them,’ the bar boy said. ‘They look like ancient Greek temples. Doric columns and all that. They call them “tombs”.’

‘So they’re not secret at all, then.’

‘Oh, they are. Completely secret. No one knows what goes on inside. And only a handful of people are allowed to join. I think Wolf’s Head only has fifteen or sixteen members at any one time. Mainly juniors.’

‘But however exclusive they are, whatever it is they do can’t be that important if these groups are — with all due respect — made up only of undergraduates.’ James smiled.

‘But they’re not, not really. That’s the whole point. After your year as a member, you become a past member. And you keep that for life. They say President Taft was a Skull and Bones man.’

‘And, what, they meet afterwards?’

‘They help each other out. Like a secret network.’ That too was familiar. Oxford academics pretended to be above such things, but James knew of the Freemasons and their cat’s cradle of connections, one man giving another a leg-up, the beneficiary then lending a hand to a third, who in turn would help the first — a perpetual motion machine of favours and patronage.

James had just pressed the bartender for a few specifics when the door opened and two men came in, instantly demanding martinis. James left a coin on the counter and hurried out.

Once outside, he reached for the notebook he had kept in the inside breast pocket of his jacket: he hadn’t wanted to scribble notes while the bartender had been talking, fearing it would look odd or at least break the young man’s flow. Instead he had relied on a mnemonic technique he had used a couple of times during his brief, abruptly-terminated career in intelligence in Spain. If discretion barred him from using a pen and paper, he would take in information — nodding along, absorbing what he heard — and then, in his mind’s eye, visualize it in written form, the words appearing one by one on an imaginary page. Once the page was full, he would snap a mental photograph of it in his head and commit that to memory.

He now jotted down what he had just heard, rather than risk losing it: the locations of those three secret societies. As he walked he checked his notes against the Yale street map he had picked up from Walters earlier. Wolf’s Head was not far at all; he would pass Skull and Bones en route.

The boy from the bar had not been wrong. If most of Yale looked like a transatlantic transplant from Oxford, the ‘tomb’ of this secret society appeared to have been grafted on twentieth century America from ancient Greece or Rome. It consisted of identical twin buildings, each in reddish stone, smooth and windowless, save for two strips of dark, leaded glass framed by a flat, pillared portico: fake entrances. Buckling the two buildings together was a real entrance, similar in design to the other two — with pillars that were flat, rather than round — but with a genuine, solid door. There were no markings and no sign. It could have been a house of worship for an anonymous religion. And while James was tempted to mock the vanity of such a structure, as he probably would have done had this housed a student society back in Oxford, he could not deny the effect here. The closed austerity of this place exuded secrecy — and power.

He continued west on Chapel Street, then turned right almost immediately on York. At first, he couldn’t see what he was meant to be looking at. There was none of the immediate grandeur of Skull and Bones, no imposing, temple-like entrance. Instead, there were just glimpses of amber stone behind the lush green foliage of a garden full of trees. He would have guessed this was the home of a wealthy recluse, newly-built, like the Sterling Library, from stones given an artificial patina of age.

He walked around to get a different view. Now he could see that, where Skull and Bones reached tall and high, the Wolf’s Head ‘tomb’ was spread lower and wider, its edges softened by gentle lawns all around. It could have been a chapel in the English countryside.

He followed the low wall around until he saw a path, shrouded by trees, leading up to a side door. He was sure that few outside the clandestine, gilded circle of Wolf’s Head members dared to tread here and that he was breaking a dozen different secret society rules, but if he was to find Harry and Florence, Lund’s promise — I can help you — was the closest he had got to a clue. The Assistant Dean’s last act, embedding that pin into his cheek, had been to point here, to the Wolf’s Head, so James had little choice but to find out why. This was the best lead he had, largely because it was the only lead he had.

At the door he found a simple push-button bell on the right. He pressed it but heard nothing. He pressed it again, assuming he had not pushed it hard enough. Still nothing. Perhaps it was broken. Or else the bell was sounding in some distant room, the doors thick, the floors lushly carpeted, from which no sound could travel. He leant in, pressing his ear against the wood. The place seemed utterly empty.

He walked a few paces back, his eye seeking out windows, drainpipes, ledges. Without planning to, he had begun sizing up the building for a break-in. He retreated further, to see if there was a path leading around the back, when he heard the sound of a twig breaking under foot. He swivelled to his left and saw nothing, then round the other way and there, standing right by him, much closer than he expected, was a woman — watching him with a calm, steady gaze.

She was tall, with hair that was neither blonde nor brown but somewhere in between, the colour of honey, tumbling loosely onto her shoulders. To add to his confusion, she was wearing trousers, wide at the bottom, wider than any he had seen worn by a man, but unmistakably trousers. She was young too, perhaps one of Yale’s select population of female graduate students. In one hand she held a notebook, in the other a cigarette. She brought it to her lips, drew on it hard and then released a wreath of smoke. Then, unhurriedly, she discarded the cigarette, ground it out with a neatly-shod foot and extended a hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Lake of the Yale Daily News. How do you do, Dr Zennor?’ The emphasis on the second syllable, Zenn- or.

James was about to answer reflexively, but caught himself. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Well, you just confirmed it. Thanks. But I’d worked it out. What other Englishman would be sniffing around outside Wolf’s Head except the man Yale police were questioning this morning over the death of-’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘I’m a reporter. My job is to know what’s going on in this city. Just like your job is to know what’s going on in people’s heads.’ She tapped an index finger at her temple. He noticed that her nails were painted blood red. ‘Besides, the editor has very good links with the Yale police department. Very good.’

James tried to reply, but the words would not come. He was flummoxed, and not only because Dorothy Lake had wrong-footed him with that reference to his academic field. There was something about the way she stood which suggested a confidence, bordering on aggression. He was used to that in men; he saw it all the time. But he had never before encountered it in a woman.

Finally he spoke. ‘When the police mentioned my name, I hope they also told you I had been released. I had nothing to do with Lund’s death, Miss Lake.’

‘Yeah, I heard that. But an innocent man would put the whole thing behind him, don’t you think? Get on with his work, reading Sigmund Freud, analysing ladies’ fantasies or whatever it is you psychologists do. But here you are.’

‘I’m here to find my wife and child.’

‘What here? At the Wolf’s Head tomb?’ She cocked her head at him in a way that was downright impudent.

James could think of no reply. Instead he turned and walked down the path and was almost back on the street when he felt her hand on his arm, lightly at first, then with greater force. ‘Stop,’ was all she said, but her eyes said more, a tiny concession. ‘I think we should talk.’

‘So that you can get a story for the student rag? I don’t think so. Now if you’ll excuse-’

‘You don’t need to worry about that, Dr Zennor. We don’t publish during the vacation. I’m just gathering string for the first edition of the next semester: “The strange death of Dr George Lund.” I might not mention you at all… if I don’t feel like it.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘You help me, I’ll keep your name out of it.’

‘I couldn’t care less what you write. Put my name on the front page if you want. I’ll be long gone from here by then.’ He wrenched his arm away, suppressing a wince as he did so.

He had walked no more than two paces when Dorothy Lake stepped in front of him, blocking his path. ‘What if I can help you find your family?’

He stared at her, hope rising. He forced it down: the woman was playing some sort of game. ‘You can help me by leaving me alone.’ He tried to walk past her. She moved to her right, blocking him again.

‘What if I tell you what I know and you tell me what you know.’ She arched a single, elegantly pencilled eyebrow. ‘You know, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’

James tried to ignore the flush in her cheeks and the fullness of her lips. He had barely noticed any other woman since marrying Florence — since he had met Florence, truth be told — but there was no denying that this Dorothy Lake, as tall and lean as his wife, was very striking. Her features were not as refined as Florence’s, but nevertheless she was magnetic. She had what Harry Knox would have called a ‘bedroom face’.

‘You’ll tell me what you know about what?’

She gave a small smile and nodded towards the building they had just left behind. ‘About this place.’

‘Wolf’s Head?’

She nodded, then leaned in, close enough that he could pick up her scent — feminine, with a hint of musk — and whispered, ‘I’ve been inside.’

James pulled back, so that he could face her but also to put greater distance between them. The moment had been unnerving in its proximity. He was about to speak when she looked up and over his shoulder. He turned, to see two students approaching. She signalled to wait, conversation suspended, until the men had passed; then she spoke again. ‘You know what, it makes no sense talking like this on the sidewalk. Why don’t we get some lunch?’

Without enthusiasm, he agreed. She was persistent and canny, she had demonstrated that much already. Maybe she had picked up something useful. And he was not exactly inundated with offers of help. He needed to take what he could get.

They went to a place she described as a ‘diner’ on Elm Street, where they were presented with hamburgers and chips, which she called French fries. In an attempt at small-talk, there was a brief exchange about the correct pronunciation of ‘tomato’. ‘ Tom-arto,’ she said mockingly, as if she were a house guest in an Evelyn Waugh novel. ‘It’s tom-may-to: don’t you Brits know anything?’

A few minutes later she pushed her unfinished plate aside and lit up another cigarette. ‘So why are you so interested in Wolf’s Head?’

‘I think you know the answer to that.’

‘I do, but I want to hear it from you.’ The confidence of this young woman was quite unsettling. She seemed to make no concession to the fact that James was older than she was, that he was a man or that they had only just met. He took another gulp of coffee. ‘Listen, Miss Lake. It was you who wanted this deal, not me. So why don’t we let me decide the terms? You tell me what you know and then I will do the same. But you go first.’

Dorothy took a long drag on the cigarette then ran her fingers through her hair, a gesture that instantly reminded him of Florence — though he was sure his wife would not make such a move in front of a stranger.

She rested her cigarette in the ashtray where it sent up a little curl of smoke as if in protest, then extended her hand across the table: ‘Deal.’ They shook hands, and she held on a fraction longer than she needed to. Her fingers were cool to the touch as they rested against his palm.

James withdrew his hand. ‘Let’s start with the Wolf’s Head. What can you tell me?’

‘It’s a secret society, set up around sixty years ago — the same way all these societies were set up.’

‘How’s that?’

She retrieved the cigarette, took a drag. ‘By people who’d failed to get into the other secret societies.’

‘Like Skull and Bones and-’

‘And Scroll and Key. You learn fast.’ She blew a ring of smoke, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. James was trying to work out her accent, which was different from the others he had heard here. The way she kept her lips tight together, the jaw slightly clenched, and clipped her words made him wonder if this was the American equivalent of posh. ‘Anyway, that’s how it works. Scroll and Key was set up by Bones rejects, Wolf’s Head by Scroll rejects.’

‘And who decides who gets in?’

‘Who gets tapped, you mean. The existing members decide.’

‘And they’re all third year students? Sorry, “juniors”.’

‘Correct. But maybe not just by them.’

‘Who else?’

She stubbed out the remnant of her cigarette. ‘None of us know for sure. They’re secret, remember? And women are not allowed anywhere near them.’

‘Except for you.’

She ignored him and went on. ‘The members are top-drawer, chosen for all the usual reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘Brains, athletic ability. Pedigree.’

‘You mean their family backgrounds?’

‘Sure. Grand-daddy was a Wolfie, Daddy was a Wolfie, you’re a Wolfie.’

‘And what do they do, exactly, these “Wolfies”?’

‘The usual fraternity stuff: drinking, hazing, fooling-’

‘What’s hazing?’

‘You don’t have fraternities in England, huh? Hazing is an initiation ritual. New recruit has to be humiliated. You know, stand naked reciting the Declaration of Independence while getting towel-whipped.’ She mimed the snap of a towel.

‘And once you’re in?’

‘That’s when the fun starts.’

‘Like what?’

‘More drinking, more larking around. But also,’ she lowered her voice, leaning in closer so that he could smell that musky scent once more, ‘parties.’

‘Fifteen male undergraduates drinking together doesn’t sound like much of a party to me.’

‘Who said the guests were all men?’ Her eyebrows twitched.

‘Ah, so that’s how you got inside. You were invited to a party there.’

She nodded, her eyes briefly drifting faraway as if savouring a memory. ‘It was last year. When I was an undergraduate.’

‘I thought there were no lady undergraduates at Yale.’

‘I wasn’t at Yale then. We were all from Vassar.’

‘All?’

‘Yes, a group of girls from Vassar went to Wolf’s Head for parties.’

‘I see.’

‘They brought us to Yale in a special bus. Took an age to get here.’

‘And what happened at these parties?’

She gave him a look. ‘Do you want me to draw you a map?’

‘I’m just trying to work out what this bloody society is all about, Miss Lake. Just in case it’s relevant. Please.’

‘You sound like you need a cigarette, Dr Zennor. Calm your nerves.’ Without asking if he wanted one, she took a cigarette from her case, put it to her mouth, lit it and then passed it to him. He hesitated before taking it, unsure whether he should collude in such an intimate exchange. But she was right; he did need to calm himself. He inhaled deep and long and then spoke again. ‘And you had a friend at Wolf’s Head who invited you to these parties?’

‘No, it didn’t work like that. Vassar decided who went on the bus.’

‘Oh, so that was an exclusive club too.’

‘You bet. And discreet. Only those girls who were picked even knew about it.’

‘And I bet they were the smartest, prettiest girls in the college.’

‘Now you’re asking me to be immodest, Dr Zennor.’ She smiled. ‘Put it this way, I’m sure Vassar was careful to choose girls the men of Wolf’s Head would enjoy meeting.’

‘And inside? Did you see anything, anything that might be useful to me?’

‘There’s lots of wood panelling in there, I remember that. You know, honour boards listing past members, names painted in gold letters.’

James leaned forward. ‘And do you remember any of them, any names?’

‘I was a nineteen-year-old girl surrounded by some of the most eligible young men in America, Dr Zennor: I had my eye on other things.’

‘I need to see a list of past members.’

‘I might be able to help you with that.’

James exhaled loudly. ‘That would be excellent, Miss Lake. Really.’

‘But now I think it’s your turn to help me.’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. I have a few more questions to ask first.’

‘Come on, this is not-’

‘What, fair? Perhaps not. But there are probably a hundred people in this town who could tell me about the Wolf’s Head Society. There’s only one who can tell you about the death of George Lund. Remember, I was with the lead detective on the case a matter of hours ago. So, another question.’

She raised her hands in defeat.

He cleared his throat, signalling as much to himself as to her, that he was getting to what mattered most. ‘I want to know what you know about the Oxford mothers and children.’

‘This is about your wife and child, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, they arrived here on July twenty-fourth. They-’

‘I’ve read your newspaper, Miss Lake. I want to know what more you know.’

She crinkled her brow, as if she was struggling to think of anything interesting. ‘I didn’t cover this story, so I don’t really know much beyond-’

‘Try.’

‘OK. I know they were invited by a few faculty members at Yale. It was their initiative. I know that it had to be arranged real quick, over a few weeks. I also heard that Cambridge said no.’

‘Cambridge? As in the university? Why would they say no?’

‘I have no idea. I just heard that they did. People were asking, “How come we’re only doing this for Oxford? Is Yale Oxford’s sister university? Will Harvard be hosting Cambridge children?” And the answer was no, Cambridge were offered but said no.’

‘How odd. And you don’t remember where you heard that?’

‘Just around.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Oh, there is one other interesting thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Both camps agreed on this plan.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You know, pro- and anti-war. Those who think we should join the war backed the Oxford rescue, saying it’s part of our historic ties to England and all that. And the anti-intervention people agreed, probably to show that just because they’re against the war doesn’t mean they don’t care what happens to sweet little kids.’

James resisted the desire to give her a brief lecture on why anyone who truly cared a jot about British children would be agitating to join the war this instant. Instead he asked, ‘Where did they go?’

‘All over. They’re staying with different families. People volunteered to open their doors. I heard there was one family who had their heart set on having a little girl and were shocked to receive four adolescent boys.’ She smiled at the thought of it.

‘And you didn’t hear anything about a mother with just one son, a two-year-old boy?’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t. I’m really sorry.’ What was odd about that last remark was that this otherwise unsentimental woman appeared to mean it.

Then she sat up straight. ‘Now it really is my turn.’

‘All right,’ James said, in a voice that suggested a reluctant concession. ‘But then we go back to past members of Wolf’s Head, yes?’ She nodded.

And so, as Dorothy Lake scribbled in her notebook, he ran through his meeting the previous day at the Dean’s office, the second encounter at Pepe’s restaurant, the rushed conversation over pizza and then the police visit this morning.

‘He also appears to have taken something from the killer,’ James said coyly, building up what he planned to be his big revelation.

‘You mean the pin in the cheek?’

‘Oh. So you know about that?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. Why else would I have been sniffing around the Wolf’s Head? Come on, Zennor. Tell me something I don’t know.’

He contemplated describing the photographs he had seen in Lund’s bag. But he would not do it. Part of it was respect: why defame a dead man as a pervert, in the college newspaper of all places? But part of it was a more hard-headed calculation. He needed to hold something back, currency to be used later if needed.

‘I’ll tell you more if you tell me about these past members — and there’s something I need you to do for me.’

‘I have a better idea,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Why don’t we cut the deal-making and the horse-trading and just agree to work on this together? You need to get to the bottom of this and so do I. I can’t do it alone and nor can you. You help me, I help you. No more bartering. What do you say?’

‘I say that’s a much better idea.’

‘OK, then.’ She flicked through her notebook, finding an earlier page. ‘There’s only one document I could find that makes any mention of past members. It’s from an alternative college magazine that circulated a few years ago, before the Dean’s office shut it down. It was called Rebel Yale. Luckily the Sterling keeps everything.’

‘And you’ve seen it?’

‘I read it this morning. As soon as the editor got the tip-off about the link to Wolf’s Head.’

James leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

‘The formal group of Wolf’s Head alumni is called the Phelps Association. Named, I think, for Edward John Phelps, who went on to become ambassador to London, as it happens.’

James nodded. ‘OK, who else?’

‘All kinds of big shots. Politicians in Washington, lawyers in New York, professors, doctors, business tycoons, you name it.’

James sat back, trying to sift through what he was hearing. ‘And presumably Lund’s killer was one of them?’

‘No one else gets the pin.’

James furrowed his brow again. ‘These former members, the Phelps Association. Do they stay involved in the university in any way?’

‘There was something on this in the library too.’ She turned several pages of her notebook and began reading out loud. ‘“WHS” — that’s Wolf’s Head Society — “alumni have been central to some of the most significant changes in the life of Yale. The recently-established residential college system was the inspiration of former WHS member, the late Edward S Harkness, while it was another one-time bearer of the Wolf’s Head pin who in 1934 established the Yale Political Union”.’ She began speeding up, skim-reading as if looking for something else. ‘“Other innovations credited to WHS alums include the founding of the Elizabethan Club, as well as the composition of the unofficial Yale anthem-”’

‘Hold on, go back.’

‘“… in 1934 established the Yale Political Union-”’

‘No, the next bit.’

‘“… the founding of the Elizabethan Club, as well-”’

‘That’s it. The Elizabethan Club. That’s where I’m staying.’

‘I know.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Well, not really. I mean, these WHS fellows also wrote the college song. They did a lot of things. It has no connection to Lund, does it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He gestured at her notebook. ‘Go back to the rebel magazine. Does it list any names?’

‘It does, but it seems to be purely speculative. Rumours and gossip.’

‘Can I look?’

‘Sure,’ she passed the notebook across the table.

He saw a series of scribbled notations he could not decipher and then, continuing onto the next page, a list of names, apparently in alphabetical order: Harrison, Hayes, Hinton. He scanned ahead to McLellan, Merritt, Moore, Morton. Then to Simpson, Sutton, Symes, back up, his eye stopping briefly at the F’s, where he saw a Ford and wondered if it might be the Ford of the motor car company, and then back down again. He was about to hand the list back when he saw an entry that halted him.

He turned the notebook around, his finger hovering over the name. ‘Well, that one certainly means something to me.’

She peered at it, as if struggling to read her own handwriting. James’s finger rested on the name of Theodore Lowell: the pastor James had heard within hours of arriving in New Haven, preaching so effectively from his pulpit at the Battell Chapel, urging his fellow Americans to stay out of Europe’s war.