Pantheon

Chapter Twenty-seven

James left the administrative building, stepping into the summer evening. His son Harry had once called this ‘the orangey time of day’, when the sun begins to dip, turning the sky pink, crimson and every shade in between. It felt like midnight, such was his exhaustion — from the heat, from the whisky, but above all from the disappointment. Sitting in the office of Preston McAndrew, he had allowed himself to believe that his journey was all but over. Each moment in the Dean’s office had pumped him ever fuller with hope. And now that hope had been punctured.

He always thought of himself as a rational man, a man of science. Faced with any conundrum, he always favoured the explanation that was both simple and supported by evidence. He had no patience for theory, for hypotheticals or speculation. And so, no matter how curious Lund’s behaviour had been, no matter how bizarre his death or connection to the mysterious Wolf’s Head society, James had believed that the true explanation for Harry and Florence’s disappearance would turn out to be straightforward and mundane: a mislaid file, a document that had been filled in incorrectly. There would be apologies, perhaps even laughter at the rotten luck of it all and the whole ordeal would be over. At bottom, that was what James had believed throughout — and wanted to believe still.

But it was becoming harder to hold onto. Lund was dead and all the rational, empirical evidence pointed to murder rather than suicide. Florence and Harry were proving impossible to trace. Again it was now logical, not hysterical or paranoid, to conclude that something had happened to them, even that they could be in serious danger. Lund had been agitated when he made his offer of help, hardly the behaviour of a man aware of a mere administrative mix-up that, once resolved, would reveal Florence’s whereabouts. He had acted as if he were privy to information that was itself dangerous.

James suddenly became aware that he was walking very fast, adrenalin pushing him into a rush he could hardly control. What was more, though it took him another moment to realize it, he had no idea where he was going.

It was as he headed into College Street that he sensed someone behind him. He didn’t turn at first, his training telling him to wait. His brain automatically offered up the options: McAndrew catching up with him, to tell him they had found Florence’s address after all; the men who had killed Lund, now come to kill him; Florence herself. That last thought — however unlikely — made him turn and what he saw made him wonder why he had not considered this possibility first.

‘Hold up, Dr Zennor. Some of us are wearing heels.’

‘Christ, you gave me a start.’ He realized he was panting. ‘How long have you been following me?’

‘And there I was, expecting a nice “Thank you, Miss Lake”.’

James stopped, looked down, then said, ‘I’m sorry. And thank you for doing what you did. But it was no good. They have details for every Oxford family but mine.’

‘No! That is disappointing.’ Something in her eyes, clear and blue, suggested a sympathy that was more than merely polite. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know, Miss Lake.’ He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?’

A thought that had been incubating in James’s mind since he had sat in McAndrew’s office now came to life. It was laden with risk, something he would not consider in normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. ‘Actually, I do know where I would like to go. But I will need your help.’

He had often thought badly of himself in recent years, especially when regarding his damaged body. His opinion of his own worth had sunk low. But he had never felt what he felt now. He had never despised himself.

Standing here, on the doorstep of a small, colonial house on Church Street, his hand hovering by the brass knocker, he felt contempt for what he was about to do. For this was the home of Margaret Lund, a woman who had become a widow that morning. To intrude on such a person was appalling in itself; to do so with a reporter in tow was vile. And yet here he was.

When he had mentioned the idea to Dorothy Lake, he had half-hoped she would talk him out of it, tell him it was wrong and that he should leave Mrs Lund in peace. But who was he fooling? She was a journalist and an ambitious one at that. He had barely got the words out before she had found a telephone booth, with a directory hanging on a metal cord, and discovered the home address for Lund, Dr G.E. If he had known it would be that simple, James would have done it himself.

‘Don’t be too tough on yourself,’ Dorothy had said as they turned onto Church Street, the harder edges on her voice softer now, as if they had been planed away. The change made him wonder which of the two voices he had heard from her over the course of this day was real and which the fake. ‘You’re paying a condolence visit.’

‘I’d hardly call it that.’

‘She may find it comforting to talk to someone who saw her husband at the end.’

‘For God’s sake, he wasn’t ill, was he? It’s not as if I visited him on his deathbed. We met and he stormed out. Besides, that’s not my motive, is it, to express my condolences? I’m there for my sake, not hers.’

‘And what about me?’

‘That just makes it worse.’

‘Oh thanks.’

‘Because you’re a reporter.’ He had shaken his head as he walked, his pace quickening in time with his nerves. ‘I can hardly believe I’m doing this.’

‘We’ll say I’m your friend and that I’m helping you find your wife and child.’

James gave her a sideways glance. She was about the same age Florence had been when they had first met, in Barcelona. Florence’s poise had stunned him then; he had fallen in love with it. But it was nothing next to the brazen confidence of Dorothy Lake.

‘What, and lie to a grieving woman?’ He had stared straight ahead. ‘We’ll try to keep it vague.’

He now took a deep breath, lifted the knocker and let it fall once, then twice. He could hear voices on the other side of the door: the low hubbub of a house of mourning. He wished he could turn and sprint away. But it was too late for that: a woman answered the door, much older than he expected, her hair silver-white at the temples.

‘Mrs Lund?’ James said tentatively, his voice gentle.

The woman shook her head. James saw that she was clutching a handkerchief, balled up in her fist. ‘Mrs Lund is my daughter. Were you a colleague of George’s?’

James considered saying yes; it would be so much easier. But he could not do it. ‘No, I only met him yesterday. I was hoping to-’

‘Who is it, Mother?’

The voice came from the other end of the hallway, from a woman with similar features to the first, though she was taller and fuller-figured. When she emerged into the light, James could see she was cradling a baby in her arms.

He had thought about this moment in advance. He had prayed to the God he didn’t believe in that the police had already told her that the Englishman had a cast-iron alibi for the murder of her husband, that he was no longer a suspect. But what if they hadn’t?

‘My name is James Zennor. I was with your husband last night.’

She was close now, shooing her mother out of the way so that she filled the doorframe. The baby was tiny and new. Margaret Lund’s belly was still rounded, as Florence’s had been in the weeks after Harry’s birth. Her eyes were raw. They looked into James’s for a long moment, as if trying to see into him, to see what material he was made of. Then they diverted to his side. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is Dorothy Lake, she’s helping me while I’m here at Yale.’ Perhaps he had spoken too gently, because Mrs Lund leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, I missed the name.’

‘Dorothy Lake.’ She extended a hand, which Margaret Lund ignored, her brow furrowed. Lund’s widow reminded James of the men he had seen during the university battle in Madrid, stumbling around, dazed, after they had seen their friends drop to the ground. ‘Lake, you say?’

‘Yes.’ It was James who answered. ‘I wonder if we could come inside. Just for a moment or two.’

Mrs Lund turned around and walked back down the hallway. James chose to interpret that as an invitation to follow. Conscious of being watched by the older woman, he kept his eyes focused ahead, fighting the urge to look around, to guess where the dead man’s corpse had been found.

They were led into the kitchen, where Mrs Lund had already taken a seat. (Perhaps the living room was out of bounds; perhaps it had happened there.) She was looking down at her baby, stroking his bald head.

Without being asked, James found a chair. He did not know how or where to begin, so he just started talking. ‘Your husband performed a great act of kindness to me yesterday. He offered to help find my wife and child. They came here to New Haven from Oxford, you see, but there is no trace or record of them. Your husband said he could help. We met yesterday evening. He became agitated; I’m afraid we argued — and I didn’t see him again. But I believe he was trying to help a man in distress. A fellow father in distress.’ James could feel his eyes turning salty. He had not expected to become emotional. Maybe it was the sight of the baby. He rushed towards a conclusion. ‘And so I wanted to pay my respects.’

Through this, Margaret Lund kept her gaze on the infant, soothing him as he slept. She did not raise her eyes to James when he finished talking. He now saw the futility of this visit; it had been a mistake to come. What had he really expected her to say? ‘Oh yes, George mentioned you to me. He told me your wife is staying at number seventy-eight…’ What possible light could she shed on his problem, especially now, in this state?

He got up to leave, rising from his chair slowly, as if too sudden a movement would be disrespectful. He wanted to ask about Wolf’s Head, about the pin in the mouth, why George Lund had seemed so nervous and, if she had spoken at all, if she had given him even the slightest cue, he would have found a way to do so. But asking cold, like this, was impossible. He was not a detective; he could not start bombarding a widow on her very first day of mourning with questions. She was clearly catatonic with grief.

It was Dorothy who spoke next. ‘Mrs Lund? Might I use your bathroom?’

Now the widow looked up, an oddly serene expression on her face. ‘Upstairs, first door on your right.’

James wondered what Dorothy was up to. He hoped to God she wasn’t planning on snooping around up there; he would not have put it past her. He got to his feet. ‘Once again, Mrs Lund, I am so sorry for-’

‘Close the door.’

‘I’m sorry, I-’

‘Close the door.’

James did as he was told.

‘Listen to me. Don’t tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you, do you understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘No one. Not for my sake. For yours.’

‘I don’t-’

‘My husband did not kill himself, Dr Zennor. Whatever else anyone tells you, don’t believe it. He would never have done such a thing.’ She glanced down at the baby. ‘He did not kill himself.’

‘I thought not.’

‘There are some very powerful people around here, Dr Zennor. I think George had found out something he shouldn’t have. In the last few days, he had become very anxious.’ The eyes, rimmed with red, were afire.

‘Did he tell you what it was?’

‘No. But he wanted to tell someone. Maybe he was going to tell you.’

James gazed at her, his mouth dry. ‘Yes.’

‘It had something to do with his work.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

She nodded tightly, impatient to get on. She cocked an ear as a voice became audible on the other side of the door. ‘With you in a minute, Mother!’ she called out, to ward off any interruption. In an urgent whisper, she resumed: ‘Every night George brought home a briefcase full of papers. Every night. He worked so hard.’ Her voice sounded like a broken reed. ‘But when I found him… this morning.’ Her eyes were brimming now, the words cracked. ‘When I found him, his case was empty. Nothing there but a few pencils. No documents. Not a single sheet of paper.’ Her gaze pinned him: he could not look away.

‘Whoever killed him took those papers, Dr Zennor. That’s why they killed my husband. To keep their secret safe.’