Pantheon (33 page)

James picked up the receiver and heard his own breath. After no more than a second’s thought, he responded to the operator’s enquiry by asking to be put through to the office of the
Yale Daily News
. James checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, it was summer. There was every chance there would be no one there. But the call was answered.

‘The editor, please.’

Another delay, then a second voice. ‘Can I help?’

‘Yes, I hope you can. My name is Dr James Zennor and I’ve been dealing with one of your reporters, a Miss Dorothy Lake.’

‘Yes, I know. Is there a problem?’

‘No problem at all. She’s been extremely diligent. She is keen to have my co-operation on the story she’s working on and I just wanted to check her
bona fides,
if you will. Do you mind if I ask how she came to you?’

‘She was an undergraduate at Vassar and on the paper there, I think. She comes very highly recommended.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. By whom?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said she comes very highly recommended. Recommended by whom?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I should say. I don’t want people to think nepotism plays a part in these decisions.’

‘No, no, of course not. This is strictly for my own reassurance. It will stay between us.’ James looked over his shoulder to see Riley pointing at his wristwatch. He could cut off this call at any moment.

‘In that case, I’m glad to reassure you that Miss Lake came with the highest possible recommendation.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She was recommended by the Dean, Dr Preston McAndrew. And here I would appreciate your discretion, Dr Zennor. But Dr McAndrew is Miss Lake’s uncle.’

He lay on the hard, narrow bed in the cell. Part of him welcomed the chance to lie down and rest. He was exhausted and needed to think. But the other part was desperate to act, to get back out into the daylight and onto the streets, to see if this new knowledge might somehow lead him to Florence. First, though, he had to think.

He went over and over again the events of the last twenty-four hours, since Dorothy Lake had found him outside the Wolf’s Head tomb, reviewing them in light of the discovery of her family connection to the Dean. Theoretically, it might make no difference: yes, she had got her start with the
Yale Daily News
through him, but now she was an ambitious young journalist whose sole desire was to get a good story.

But the other possibility was just as likely, that she was, in fact, working for her uncle – doing what he had asked her to do. Perhaps that amounted to no more than a request that she keep an eye on James, letting the Dean know what he was up to. But he had to consider that her duties went far beyond just that.

He thought of the list of names of Wolf’s Head alumni in Miss Lake’s notebook, how it had included everyone except one of the society’s most eminent past members: the current Dean of Yale University himself. He should have become suspicious of her the moment McAndrew had revealed his connection to the Wolf’s Head. But he had not even thought of it.

In the same way, James had accepted that it was just rotten luck that he had been interrupted by the Dean himself as he went through the files in the outer office. But what if Dorothy had tipped her uncle off? She might have recovered from her fall earlier than agreed, then gone to find McAndrew or sent the secretary to get him. It would mean that her telephone call to Riley and the Yale Police Department just now would have been her second betrayal of James in as many days.

So for all his courtesy and promises to help, the Dean had been suspicious of James and had despatched someone, his own niece, to watch him, so that she could sound the alarm if he ever got too close for comfort. But too close to what? What exactly was the Dean hiding? Whatever secret it was, he clearly believed James was getting dangerously close. But why would he believe that? Because James had been in contact with Lund? Or simply because he had been making enquiries about the Oxford children?

James’s head hurt. His shoulder was throbbing, as it always did after strenuous exercise. It would be so easy to fall asleep, to slip into a stolen hour of rest and dreams, where Florence and Harry might visit him. His eyelids were growing heavier. But then he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. His jailers were unlocking the door.

Without speaking, a junior officer ushered him into the hallway. Preparing himself for release – to sign a form, have his belongings returned to him and be sent on his way – he was instead greeted by Riley, mug of coffee in hand, a curl of steam rising from it. The detective nodded towards the interview room. ‘Shall we?’

James followed him inside, tasting the sourness of his own mouth. The sweat from his earlier run had congealed on his skin, leaving a clammy film on his back; he hadn’t eaten for hours. He wanted to be almost anywhere but this room. Surely the Yale Police Department had better things to do than prosecute an English academic for climbing a garden gate?

‘Detective Riley—’

‘Hold on, Dr Zennor. I need to check something with you.’

‘All right,’ he said, shaking his head at the exasperating endlessness of it all. ‘Fire away.’

‘It’s not a question exactly. I need to look at you. Can you stand up a second?’

‘Look at me? What the devil is this about?’

‘It will only take a moment.’ The detective moved closer, so that he was just a few inches from James, then raised himself on tiptoes – and began looking at James’s hair.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘I’m nearly done.’ Riley began touching James’s hair, probing into the scalp. Instinctively James reached up to push the man off and away, but the detective was strong, grabbing James’s right arm with one hand, using the other to touch James’s hair, repeatedly rubbing a lock of it between finger and thumb.

‘Get off me!’

‘There we are, all done,’ the policeman said, stepping back and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘You better have a bloody good explanation, Riley, or I shall be lodging a complaint. I’ve never—’

‘Calm down, Zennor. I’ll decide who’s in trouble here. I caught you engaged in an act of criminal trespass, remember? Take a seat.’ James remained standing, his eyes burning. ‘Now.’

Slowly, James sat down, reining in his temper, bringing the dog to heel.

‘Good. Forgive my little impromptu exam, but this job ain’t always pleasant. Now, I just had a very interesting visitor here.’

James, still struggling to keep the lid on his anger, said nothing.

‘The lady who lives next door to the Lund residence, as a matter of fact. Says she heard some noise late Monday night. Went to her window to check and – guess what – she saw a man leaving the house.’

‘We’ve been through this. You know I was fast asleep at the Elizabethan—’

‘Will you shut the hell up and listen for a moment? Turns out there’s a street lamp right by the Lund house. Lady says the man was tall, roundabout your height. She didn’t see his face, but the lamp did pick out his hair. Very distinct, she said it was. What they call salt-and-pepper. Little bit black, little bit silver.’

There was a pause as James said nothing and sought to ensure his face did the same.

Riley went on. ‘Hence my little poke around up top just now. Wanted to see if you’d dyed your hair, you know, to cover it up.’

‘But I haven’t,’ said James, quietly.

‘No, you haven’t.’

‘Which means someone else killed George Lund.’

Riley leaned back in his chair. ‘I think you’re jumping to conclusions again, Dr Zennor. This could still be what it looked like. Suicide.’

‘Except you said his wife said he was planning for his future. A baby upstairs.’

‘I know what I said.’

‘And how many suicides die with a metal badge in their mouths? Tell me, Detective, there was no sign of a break-in at the house, was there?’

‘No. And that usually means no one else was involved.’

‘Either that,’ said James, ‘or someone who Lund knew well enough to let into his home late at night.’

‘Don’t try to do my job, Dr Zennor.’

‘OK, I won’t.’ James could feel the blood pumping around his brain; he pictured it, different zones lighting up like the pinball machine he had seen at the drugstore on College Street. ‘But could I ask you a favour?’

‘Depends what it is now, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m presuming you’re going to release me. When you do, it would be a great help if you told no one that you have – especially not the editor of the
Yale Daily News
.’

‘You’re making a lot of presumptions there, Mister. I mean—’

‘Not even your superiors here, if you can help it. I can’t explain why, but if you trust that I’m an honest man – and I suspect you do – then I’d like you to believe me when I say it may help. Not just me, but you too.’

‘Maybe it’s normal to talk to police officers this way in England, but I got to tell you, this is not—’

‘Now, where do I sign?’ James asked with a smile. ‘I have somewhere I need to get to as quickly as possible.’

What they call salt-and-pepper. Little bit black, little bit silver
.

Distinct, Riley had called it and it certainly was. His hair was one of the first things James had noticed about Preston McAndrew. The man the neighbour had seen was the right height too.

If he had heard it described to him, he would have dismissed it as fantastical, the kind of tale feasted upon by the Sunday newspapers back home: the dean of a university involved in a murder. But in the light of the evidence, surely it was rational to conclude that Preston McAndrew had murdered George Lund, that despite his veneer of charm and scholarly sophistication, the holder of one of the most prestigious posts in the American academy had strangled his immediate subordinate, then strung up the body to make it look like a suicide. For James, one implication stripped ahead of all the others: it meant that McAndrew’s warm reassurances about his endeavours to find Florence and Harry were worthless. This man was not to be trusted, but feared.

James was striding quickly now, right on Wall Street, left on Church Street, navigating entirely from memory, glad for the simplicity of New Haven’s layout and for his own memory. His shoulder was sore, urging him to rest, but adrenalin was beginning to kick in and it was an effective anaesthetic.

James could see it now, the same walk-up, two-step entrance to the modest, pretty Lund house. How idiotic he had been to bring Lake with him, McAndrew’s niece. No wonder the woman had clammed up. And then he and Dorothy had gone from here to eat dinner together. He had talked about Florence and he had dropped his guard, allowing himself to believe that Dorothy liked him. When of course she was nothing more than a woman doing a job.

James was furious with himself. He was nearly thirty, too old to be guilty of such naïveté. He should have seen through the sudden appearance of a beautiful, intriguing young woman at the Wolf’s Head, ready to help and be at his side. But he was also – what was it? – not angry, exactly, but disappointed
in Dorothy. Despite all their negotiations and gamesmanship, he thought he had detected a connection between them. And then there was the concern, almost maternal, he had seen in her eyes when he spoke about Harry … He could not accept that that was entirely fake.

It was late afternoon but the sun was still bright. As he stood on the doorstep he could not see inside the windows; too much glare.

He knocked on the door. Silence. He knocked again, this time pressing his ear to the door to listen. None of the voices and hubbub he had heard yesterday. He stepped away from the entrance, towards the bay window of the main room. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered in. All was dark.

‘You looking for the family?’

The voice came from the porch of the house next door. An elderly man in a blue blazer was sitting on a wicker chair, a newspaper on his lap. He spoke again, as if unsure he had been heard the first time. ‘You a mourner?’

James offered a concerned smile. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Lund, yes. Do you happen to know—’

‘They left this morning.’

‘They
left
?’

‘That’s right. All of them, her parents, the baby. Early too.’

‘Really?’

‘I can’t sleep later than four, four-thirty these days. It’ll happen to you someday, believe me.’

‘And, what—’

‘I came down and I saw them packing up. In a hurry too. Just shoving those suitcases in the trunk of the automobile and off they went. She waved at me, the younger one.’

‘Margaret?’

‘That’s right. She was holding the baby. And then they were off.’

‘At dawn.’

‘You bet. Break of dawn. Yes, sir.’

‘Did they say where they were going?’

‘No. They didn’t stop to talk.’

James thanked the man and headed back down the street, trying to digest what he had just been told.

There are some very powerful people around here.
That was what Margaret Lund had said yesterday. She believed they had killed her husband
to keep their secret safe.
Those were her words. She must have concluded that they would be ready to kill her too, that she was in sufficient peril to warrant leaving her home in a dawn panic. Perhaps Lund had told his wife what he suspected. No wonder she had not wanted to pass it on, especially with the woman she knew to be the Dean’s niece present. It would expose her – and whomever she told – to great danger. He thought of the intensity of her stare, so incongruous as she held her baby.
Not for my sake. For yours.

The idea was both dizzying and dangerous. He had to make sense of this too, even this. He had no alternative, not if he was to find his way back to Florence and Harry.

Very well, he told himself. If he could not learn directly what George Lund had told his wife, he would have to work with what he had: the last communication Lund had made, even in death. He would have to discover the truth about the Wolf’s Head.

For an hour he paced up and down, or sat at the bench across the street, all the time watching the entrance to the Wolf’s Head tomb. He kept an especially vigilant eye out for a black Buick with white-trimmed wheels, but saw nothing. Good man, that Riley: apparently he had done as James had asked and let no one know that the English gentleman arrested for criminal trespass had been released from custody. On the belt-and-braces principle, James had stopped by the J Press shop on York Street to pick up a new jacket. Inspired by the Lunds’ elderly neighbour, he had opted for a blue blazer as well as a Panama hat, which he now wore low, covering his eyes. If someone was tailing him, the least James could do was put him off the scent.