“And even worse than that,” Foubister went on, speaking more and more rapidly, “people look at me—all sorts of people, even Morel—and I can see the same thoughts in their eyes, and the same embarrassment afterward. What’s going to happen when it’s over and we know who it was? Will we ever go back to how we were before? I won’t forget who thought it could be me! How can I feel the same about them as I used to? And how could they forgive me, because I, too, have wondered . . . about lots of people!”
“It won’t be the same,” Joseph said frankly. “But it may still be bearable. Friendships change, but that doesn’t have to be bad. We all make mistakes. Think how much you would like your own buried and forgotten, and then do the same for others—and for yourself.” He was afraid he sounded trite, because he dared not say what was really in his mind: What if they never found who had shot Sebastian? What if the suspicion and the doubt remained here working their erosion forever, dividing, spoiling, tearing apart?
“Do you think so?” Foubister asked earnestly. He shrugged again and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I doubt it. We’re all too damned scared to be idealistic.”
“Did you like Sebastian?” Joseph said impulsively, just as Foubister turned to walk away.
“I’m not sure,” Foubister replied with painful honesty. “I used to be certain I did. I wouldn’t even have questioned it. Everyone liked him, or it seemed that way. He was funny and clever, and he could be extraordinarily kind. And once you start liking someone, it becomes a habit. You don’t change, even if they do.”
“But?” Joseph prompted.
“When you were with him you saw something good,” Foubister said ruefully, “and you believed you could do something that mattered, too. But then sometimes he’d just forget you, or go ahead and do something so much better you felt crushed.”
Joseph tried to ignore his own feelings. Sebastian had still needed him, but one day when he didn’t, would he have treated Joseph with the same offhand arrogance? He would never know. It was all a matter of belief, and he ought to be able to have some control over that.
“Anyone in particular?” he said aloud.
Foubister’s eyes widened. “If you mean do I know who killed him, no, I don’t. You don’t get a gun and shoot someone because they hurt you or make you feel like a fool, not unless you’re mad! You might punch him, or—” He bit his lip. “No, you wouldn’t even do that, because you’d be showing everyone how much you hurt. You’d just wear a nice smile as long as anyone was looking at you, and wish you could find a place to hide. Depending on who you are, you either look for something spectacular to do yourself, to show you are just as good, or you take hell out of someone else. I don’t know, Dr. Reavley, maybe you do kill. I wish I did know, because it would mean at least that I could stop suspecting everyone else.”
“I understand,” Joseph said gently.
“Yes, I suppose you do. Thank you at least for saying that.” Foubister gave a tiny smile, then turned and walked away, shoulders still tight, his body angular, yet moving with a certain grace.
It was unavoidable now. Joseph must go back to the translations that gnawed at the back of his mind, the occasions when Foubister and Sebastian had struck the same brilliant and unexpected phrase. He hated the thought that Foubister had cheated, but it seemed more and more likely. Was it really only other people’s whispers that made Foubister so conscious of suspicion and so afraid, or was it guilt?
He might never know, but he was compelled to look. There were papers he could reread, compare, do all he could to satisfy his own mind. He knew Foubister’s work, and he knew Sebastian’s. If he had any skill at all, any feeling for the cadence of language, he would know if one man was copying another. If not, then he was no more than a mechanic.
He went back inside and climbed slowly back up the stairs, fingers touching the dark oak of the banister. The first floor up was cooler, airy with its higher ceiling and open window.
Inside, his room was newly tidy from the bedder’s ministrations. She was a good woman, neat and quick and pleasant.
He pulled out the appropriate papers and turned his attention to Sebastian’s. It was a translation from the Greek, lyrical, full of metaphor and imagery. Sebastian had made a beautiful thing of it, keeping the rhythm swift and light, an excellent mixture of words, long and short, complex and simple, all blending into a perfect whole. And there was the one phrase he remembered: “the bent-limbed trees crowding along the mountain ridge, bearing the burden of the sky upon their backs.”
He put it down on the desk and searched for Foubister’s translation of the same original. It was in the middle of the page: “the hunch-limbed trees, crawling along the mountain’s rim, carrying the sky upon their backs.”
The Greeks had described them only as misshapen, silhouetted against the sky. The idea of bearing or carrying was not there, nor the suggestion of human intent. They were too alike for coincidence.
Joseph sat still, the cold grief hardening inside him. He could not ask Sebastian how he had allowed his work to be imitated so closely, and surely there was little point in confronting Foubister. He had just sworn that he had never cheated. If Joseph faced him now with this, would he still deny it? Swear it was just chance? Joseph winced at the thought of seeing it. He liked Foubister and could only imagine what grief it would bring his parents if he were sent down in shame.
But if he had killed Sebastian, that was something that could not possibly be overlooked. He realized with surprise that using those words, even to himself, meant that he had considered ignoring the cheating.
What other explanation was there? Where could he look? Who was there to ask?
His thoughts went immediately to Beecher. He could at least depend on him to be both honest and kind. Perhaps he would even honor Joseph’s silence if he was asked to.
He caught up with Beecher on his way across the quad toward the dining hall.
Beecher squinted at him. “You look awful,” he said with a half smile. “Anticipating something disgusting in the soup?”
Joseph fell into step beside him. “You’ve been teaching far longer than I have,” he began without ceremony. “What explanation might there be for two students coming up with the same highly individual translation of a passage, other than cheating?”
Beecher looked at him with a frown. “Has this something to do with Sebastian Allard?” he asked as they walked into the shadow of the archway and turned into the dining hall. Bright patterns of colored light danced on the walls from the coats of arms on the windows. There was a buzz of conversation and expectancy.
Beecher sat down at a table apart from the others, nodding to one or two other people, but giving nothing to his glance to suggest he wished their company.
“Possibly a conversation,” he said at last, just as a steward appeared at his elbow to offer him soup. “An experience shared that began a train of thought. They might even have read the same source book for something.” He declined the soup, picking up bread instead and breaking it apart.
Joseph also declined the soup. He leaned forward a little across the table. “Have you ever had that happen?”
“You mean is it likely? Whom are we talking about?”
Joseph hesitated.
“For heaven’s sake!” Beecher said exasperatedly. “I can’t give you an opinion if you don’t tell me the facts.”
Was Joseph willing to put it to the test? Was it even inevitable now? “Sebastian and Foubister,” he said miserably.
Beecher chewed his upper lip. “Unlikely, I agree. Except that Sebastian didn’t need to cheat, and I can’t see Foubister doing it. He’s a decent chap, but he’s also not a fool. He’s been here long enough to know what it would cost if he were caught. And if he did want to cheat, he’d pick someone less idiosyncratic than Sebastian.”
“How do I find out?”
“Ask him! I don’t know of anything else.” Beecher grinned suddenly. “Logic, my dear fellow! That rigid goddess you admire so much.”
“Reason,” Joseph corrected. “And she’s not rigid—she just doesn’t bend very easily.”
He went back to Foubister, carrying the paper with him.
“That’s an excellent line,” he said, disliking the duplicity. “What made you think of it? It’s quite a long way from the original.”
Foubister smiled. “There’s a line of trees a good bit like that,” he answered. “Over there in the Gog Magog
