“It’s pure moonshine,” said Selena, with unusual asperity, “and high time that we went back to Chambers and did some work.” Of the two men who might be X, I had not described the one she liked least.
I myself would have preferred not to reach the conclusion I had; but two people who had known something that X would have wished to conceal had met unexpected deaths. I could no longer feel confident that Isabella and Maurice had died of natural causes; nor did I think it unreasonable for Daphne to be afraid.
17
THOUGH MY ACADEMIC duties called me back ineluctably to Oxford, these matters for some days lingered in my mind. I had little hope, however, that further speculation would prove fruitful: my present information was insufficient for me to determine the identity of X; without meeting personally either of those I suspected I could see no way of adding to it. I tried in vain to think of anyone in banking circles whom I knew well enough to ask to arrange an apparently casual meeting.
My College was at this time engaged — as nowadays, indeed, when is it not? — in what the Bursar referred to as a resources enhancement exercise; that is to say, we were trying to raise money. To this end, a reception was to be held by the Senior Common Room for a carefully chosen group of former students whose success in later years might be supposed to have inspired them with gratitude for their education and provided them with the means to express it in concrete form.
The Bursar, I need hardly say, regarded this project as far outweighing in importance the pursuit of any scholarly research or the tuition of our present students. By St. Valentine’s Day he had already circulated three memoranda advising us how we should dress, what we should talk about and generally as to our conduct and demeanour. Finally, evidently suspecting that I had not read these with the care they deserved, he called on me in my rooms to give me my instructions in person and to hand me a typewritten list of those guests to whom I was to pay particular attention.
The venue chosen for what he termed this exciting project was the Library. Though not in truth among the most ancient of the College buildings, it has undeniably a grandeur and elegance suggesting centuries of learning and civilised discourse — made possible, we were to remind our guests, by the liberality of various distinguished benefactors. Moreover, its high Gothic windows command an admirable view of our picturesque fourteenth-century chapel, behind which, as we gathered, a pale and graceful moon had obligingly risen.
Noting on my arrival that the Bursar was in the northeast corner of the room, I made my way towards the southwest. Not wishing, however, to be thought neglectful of my responsibilities, I joined a group which included two of the eminent barristers mentioned on his list and was soon sufficiently absorbed in anecdotes of judicial indiscretion to become oblivious of him.
It was thus a rather disagreeable surprise suddenly to hear his voice immediately behind me, braying about the bottom line or the interface or something of that sort. Fearing that he might add me to his audience, I was careful not to turn my head. He was interrupted by an attractive baritone voice saying, “But Bursar, if you knew anything about economics—”
“As it happens,” said the Bursar, with an unspontaneous laugh which failed, or perhaps was not intended, to conceal the degree of offense taken, “I am the senior Economics Fellow of this College.”
“Yes, I know,” said the baritone voice cheerfully. “But that only explains why the students here don’t know anything about economics.”
Unable to resist observing the Bursar’s response to this, I risked a backward glance. I saw to my astonishment that the other party to the conversation was Geoffrey Bolton. Though admittedly I had seen him only once before, I did not think it possible that I could be mistaken; but what was he doing in the Library of St. George’s? And why had I heard no trace in his voice of the North Country accent on which all accounts of him had commented? The Scholar in pursuit of knowledge will make almost any sacrifice: with scarcely a moment’s hesitation I turned and greeted the Bursar.
Though his response was less than cordial, he could not well avoid effecting an introduction. I had not been mistaken — the owner of the attractive voice was indeed Geoffrey Bolton. I was able, however, to exchange no more than a few words with him before the Bursar, whispering furiously, “That’s not one of yours, Hilary, that’s one of mine,” led me away, more or less by force, to meet yet another eminent lawyer.
Still, I supposed that I had ample time to contrive another and more fruitful encounter, especially since I saw shortly afterwards that Bolton was engaged in conversation with our Romance Languages Fellow, Felicity Dorset, an amusing and attractive woman whom I regarded as a friend and ally. I could not imagine that a man of taste and judgement, having secured a place at her side, would relinquish it in less than twenty minutes: nothing would be easier, once I was able to conclude my present conversation, than to cross the room and join them.
My feelings need not be described — they will be all too easily imagined — at seeing, a mere five minutes later, that Felicity was talking to someone else, having nothing whatever to do with my investigation, and that Geoffrey Bolton was in the doorway, unmistakably making his farewells to the Warden.
This development took me entirely unawares: it had not occurred to me that a man who had come so far for such an occasion would not stay to the end. To attempt to speak to him now would be worse than useless: a breathless pursuit across the quad would not be a convincing prelude to an apparently casual conversation.
Moreover, the eminent lawyer was telling me what turned out to be a rather long story about his most recent forensic triumph: to leave him before he reached the climactic line would be the gravest discourtesy. I listened with increasing impatience, unreasonably vexed with him for not being Geoffrey Bolton. To have had so unexpected and promising an opportunity and been unable to profit by it was almost beyond enduring.
Eventually, it occurred to me that all might not be lost: if Bolton had thought it proper to offer the Warden any explanation for his early departure, he would almost of necessity have mentioned where he meant to spend the rest of the evening. But had the Warden been listening? An astronomer by training, he tends to pay little attention to his immediate surroundings. And even if he had, how long would he remember what he had been told? I felt that I could wait no longer for the eminent lawyer’s story to reach its climax.
“Dear me,” I said, “the Warden seems to want me urgently for something — what a pity, I’m afraid I shall have to leave you.”
The Warden said that Bolton had intended to take the next train to London. It was possible, as I knew all too well, that he was thinking of someone else, or of some other occasion, or of some quite different universe. Resolutely dismissing these possibilities from my mind, I hastened forth in search of a taxi.
By the time the clerk in the booking office handed me my ticket, the London train was already at the platform. I had no opportunity, before boarding it, to ascertain whether Bolton was among my fellow passengers. I began to wonder, as it drew out of the station, whether I had not been a little overprecipitate.
I had conscientiously — and, as it now seemed to me, improvidently — returned my keys to Timothy’s flat. If he did not happen to be at home, or if he did not consider it his duty, at quite such short notice, to provide his former tutor with a bed, I would be obliged to return to Oxford that night — by a slow train, almost certainly with no buffet car. Moreover, if I failed to find Geoffrey Bolton, I should have squandered in vain the return fare from Oxford to London.
By fortunate accident, rather than by design, I had entered the train at the foremost carriage: I would thus, without retracing my steps, be able to walk the length of it in search of him. By the time I was halfway along, however, I was feeling a little discouraged. This was partly, no doubt, because I remembered that the Warden habitually used the expression “London” to denote anywhere that was not Oxford; but I thought it might also be due to lack of food. I decided to fortify myself, when I reached the buffet car, with a sandwich and a glass of wine.
And there at the counter, amiably scolding the barman for the prices, was the man I had been seeking. I prepared to remind him who I was, but found there was no need.
“Professor Tamar, how splendid — I’d no idea you were taking this train. I don’t know if you’ll remember me — I’m Geoffrey Bolton. We were introduced about an hour ago by that pompous idiot — oh dear, I’m sorry, is he a friend of yours? No, of course he isn’t — look, why don’t you find us a table while I see to the drinks? What are you having? No, no, nonsense, Professor Tamar, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
High-handedness in such generous guise could be neither resented nor resisted. Having told him what I would like, I withdrew to the adjoining carriage to find a table — not, in truth, an onerous task, since it was almost empty.
