Sam Bourne - Pantheon

‘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.