Sam Bourne - Pantheon

The Dean stood up, placing a consoling arm around James’s shoulder. ‘I know what a letdown this is for you. I also find it very frustrating. But I promise to get to the bottom of this. Would you please let Barbara know how we can be in touch with you? One way or another, we will reunite you with your family — I give you my word.’

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?’