Before he could say anything more, she leaned forward and, dropping her voice, said, “John Fraser is a keen climber, isn’t he?”
Gordon nodded almost imperceptibly.
“And I’ve heard,” continued Isabel, “that he was involved in a couple of climbing accidents.”
Gordon was looking at her coolly. “So they say.”
“On Everest, for instance.”
He was impassive. “I read about that. They lost a member of their party. It seems to happen a lot.”
“Yes, the Death Zone.”
She waited for him to say something, but he merely watched her silently.
“And then there was Glencoe,” she went on. “Something happened there.”
His features showed barely a flicker of movement. “Lots of things happen in our mountains. How many climbers do we lose a year? Half a dozen?”
“I have no idea.”
He picked up his coffee cup and took a final swig. “I must dash. That cricket match.”
“Of course.”
She watched him leave. Eddie, who had been busying himself with a task behind the counter, came over to her table and joined her.
“I don’t like him,” he said. “I just don’t like him. He’s worse than Bruno. Far worse.”
“But he’s not,” said Isabel. “He’s infinitely better.”
“He never looks at me,” said Eddie. “He comes in here and looks straight through me. It’s as if I don’t exist.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps he’s shy. And have you greeted him? Have you done anything to show friendly feelings to him?”
Eddie pouted. “Why should I?”
“Because people who don’t show friendliness towards others can hardly complain about others not showing friendliness to them. That’s why.”
They left it at that; a couple of customers had come in, and they needed to attend to them. As Isabel did so, she reflected on what she had just learned. Gordon knew all about John Fraser, and, what was more, he had been cagey about this. It now occurred to Isabel that the solution was staring her in the face. Perhaps Gordon had written the anonymous letter in order to put one of his rivals out of the picture. He had the motive and he had the knowledge. But if he had done that, then why had he not revealed what he knew? He had hinted that one of the candidates had something to hide, but had not said which one it was and what he had done. Would there have been any reason for him to be so indirect, so coy? None, she thought. And yet she said to herself: Why shouldn’t it be him? And she could think of no reason why it should not.
That meant that there were two conclusions she should now report to the board. The first was that one of the candidates was suspected—suspected, and that was all—of an act of cowardice, and the second was that there was a possibility that one of the other candidates was prepared to write an anonymous letter in order to boost his chances of success. The board of governors could make what they wished of that information, but of one thing she was sure: Tom Simpson, by some accounts the least intellectually distinguished of the three, would get the job— unless, of course, his claim to a master’s degree proved to be false.
She felt irritated that the school had imposed on her in this way. And she felt angry with herself for allowing it. I am weak, she thought. I should be more selfish. Like Cat. Like virtually everybody else. And then she thought: I should not think in this uncharitable way; Cat is my niece, and my friend. If I think uncharitable thoughts about her, then what shall I think about Christopher Dove, or—and here she shuddered—Professor Lettuce? The thought of Lettuce brought to mind a field of vegetables, dreary, wilting, devoid of feature. And Lettuce himself, standing glumly looking out over that field, uncertain what to do. No, she would not think about him either. Yet the process of thinking that one should not think about something requires that one think about it. She attempted an experiment. She tried not to think about coffee, and immediately it came to mind: heaps of coffee, coffee unground and then ground, its characteristic smell so evocative of morning and all its possibilities. Of Paris (for some reason). Of crisp unread newspapers and the morning sun.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE HAD TO ACT. Issues were piling up: the school enquiry, with all its complexities and uncertainties; Lettuce’s piece on Dove’s new book—which would arrive at any moment; a slew of indigestible books that would have to be sent out for review— why were philosophers
She arrived back late from the delicatessen, tired and looking forward to changing out of her clothes and having a long, relaxing bath. Working with food made one smell of food—and by the time she reached home that Saturday evening she had become convinced that she had about her a distinct aroma of strong Italian sausage. Jamie kissed her as she came in the front door, and she was sure that she saw his nose wrinkle slightly, as it might if one were called upon actually to kiss a salami or a parcel of ripe French cheese.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s handling all those sausages and French cheeses and things. It rubs off.”
He leaned forward to kiss her again. “There’s nothing wrong with garlic.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But I need a bath.”
She listened to him as he told her that Charlie had been exhausted and had been put to bed early. He had dropped off to sleep immediately, Jamie said. She was disappointed; she always had enough energy for Charlie, even when at the end of her tether. But she would not disturb him—and so she went straight to the bathroom off their bedroom and cast off her delicatessen clothes. Was every day like this for Cat? She sympathised if it was. And she
Naked, she walked to the bath and felt the temperature of the water. They had an old-fashioned boiler in the house, an arrangement that made Alex, their plumber, smile and make references to museums of industrial
