panelled study-sitting-room that overlooked the long slope of the Fellows’ garden.
Duerinckx-Williams, thin and dry-looking, with a stoop and paraded short sight although well over ten years younger than I, got to his feet and smiled at me fixedly. I had met him perhaps a dozen times on occasions involving Nick.
‘Salut, vieux—entrez done. Comment ca va?’
‘Oh, pas trop mal. Et vous? Vous avez bonne mine.’
‘Faut pas se plaindre.’ Then he turned grave, or graver still. ‘Nick told me of your loss. May I offer my sympathy?’
‘Thank you. He was nearly eighty, you know, and hadn’t been well for some time. It was no great surprise.’
‘Wasn’t it? In my experience’—he made it sound as if this went back to the time of the foundation of the college, give or take a century or so—’these things are never imaginable in advance. But I’m glad to see you’re not unduly bowed down. Now, can I offer you something? Sherry? Beer? Port? Tea? Whisky? Claret?’
It was kind and intelligent of him to pretend, as usual, not to understand about drink, and so allow me to choose what I wanted without embarrassment. I said a little whisky would be very nice. While he got it for me, and made further show of incomprehension in pouring out rather more than half a gill, he came up with some amiabilities about Nick. Then, when we were sitting on either side of the splendid late-Georgian fireplace, he asked what he could do for me. I told him only of my interest in the history of my house and particularly in Underhill, of a reference to his diary in a book I had come across and of my hope that he, Duerinckx-Williams, would telephone the librarian of All Saints’ and assure him of my bona fides.
‘Mm. How urgent is your desire to see this man’s diary?’
‘Not at all, really,’ I lied. ‘It’s just that I so seldom get the chance of a day off like this, and I thought I’d take advantage of it. Of course, if it’s going to be…’
‘No no, I’ll be happy to do all I can. It’s merely that the librarian may not be there at this precise instant. At All Saints’ everybody seems to tend not to be there so much of the time. But I can readily establish that. Would you excuse me a moment?’
He telephoned briefly and rejoined me.
‘We’re in luck, Maurice. He’s not only there but also free of entanglements. Would you care for some more … of that?’ he asked, pretending now to have forgotten what I had been drinking.
‘Uh … no thank you.’
‘In that case we might be on our way. No no, I assure you it’s no trouble. Three minutes’ walk at the most. As you know.’
Four minutes later we had passed through a carved wooden doorway of great age and were walking down the All Saints’ library, a lofty and narrow room in the shape of an immense L, with some good Victorian stained glass in the windows at the angle. There was a characteristic smell, chiefly of dust and ink. The librarian came to meet us with a demeanour that managed to be haughty and deferential at the same time, like that of a West End shopwalker. There were introductions and explanations.
‘Underhill,’ said the librarian, whose name was evidently Ware. ‘Underhill. Yes. Fellow of the college in the
‘Your manuscript collection is pretty extensive, isn’t it?’ asked Duerinckx-Williams.
‘Oh, it’s
‘Then a Fellow’s personal papers, found here and inspected soon after the beginning of the last century, as I understand the case …?‘
Ware relented a little. ‘It’s possible. There’s an autograph catalogue dating from the 1740s, when the libraries first started taking an interest in manuscripts and older stuff generally. We rather led the way there, it seems. Here it is. Or rather its photocopy. Splendid invention. Underhill. Underwood, Aubrey. Several verses upon occasions, with part of
‘There’s no other collection it might be in?’ I asked.
‘Not relating to the date you gave me, no.’
‘But my author saw it in the 1810s or thereabouts.’
Duerinckx-Williams peered at the thin regular handwriting. ‘In certain circumstances, such as the loss or detachment of the first leaf or leaves, might not the diary have been entered under some general head referring to anonymous writings?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Ware, momentarily put out again. ‘It’s possible. Let’s see. Yes, under Anonymous, in fact. Anonymous, a tract discovering the vices of Popery, notably its Mariolatrous practice, by a gentleman, never imprinted. Fascinating, but not your quarry, I think. Anonymous, a quantity of sermons, and prayers, and pious thoughts, by the late rector of St Stephen’s, Little Eversden. No. Anonymous, of sundry matters, by a man of learning. Not over-informative, is it? A possibility, I suppose. Anonymous…’
There were no other possibilities. Ware looked at me with gloomy expectancy.
‘Could I have a look at those sundry matters?’ I asked.
‘All these items are kept in the Hobson Room,’ said Ware forcefully, but without indicating whether I was expected to give a cry of pure animal terror at this disclosure, or burst out laughing to find my quest so comically and decisively thwarted, or what. I turned to Duerinckx-Williams.
‘Which, I believe, is not open to non-Fellows without the written permission of the Master,’ he said, ‘but in the case of Mr Allington, who is an M.A. of my college and for whom I am happy to vouch, perhaps this requirement could be waived.’
‘Of course,’ said Ware, impatient now, and with a key already in his hand. Resuming his shopwalker manner, he added, ‘Would you come this way?’
The Hobson Room turned out to occupy a whole floor of a tower at the opposite angle of the court, approached by a winding stone staircase and possessing small windows on three sides. It was cool, the first cool place I had been in for what seemed like weeks. Most of the available wall-space was filled with deep oak shelves of Edwardian pattern, and two working-tables and chairs of the same period completed the furniture. On the shelves stood ranks of grey cloth folders, presumably containing manuscripts. Ware began to examine the top outer corners of these like somebody looking through a collection of gramophone records. I could not watch him; I stood and tried to read a framed quarto page of some book that hung among others on the stone wall, but failed to take in a word.
‘Here we are,’ said Ware. ‘Complete with fly-leaf, I see. Thomas Underhill, D.D.,
He had to supply the last part from memory, because I had turned and taken the folder from him. It contained all or part of an octavo notebook shorn of its covers—there were traces of glue and stitching—and, apart from a little foxing, in an excellent state of preservation.
‘An odd sort of anonymity, with the man’s name plastered all over the front,’ said Duerinckx-Williams.
‘Thank you,’ I said. I had seldom wanted anything as much as I wanted the two of them to go away and let me read what I held in my hands.
Duerinckx-Williams sensed this at once. ‘We’ll leave you in peace. If you happen to be free at one thirty or so, I’d be delighted to give you lunch at Matthew’s. Just the ordinary combination-room stuff, but eatable as a rule. But you mustn’t feel bound by that.’
‘Perhaps you’d lock up when you leave and return the key to me in the library,’ said Ware, handing it to me.
‘Yes,’ I said. I had the notebook open on one of the decks and a reading-light switched on. Thank you.’
There was a short pause while they presumably looked at each other or, for all I cared, went through a complicated mime of impotent fury, and then there was the clank of the iron latch.
Underhill had written a good clear hand, and had not used any private shorthand system: abbreviations were few and immediately understandable. He began, on June 17th, 1685 (he had died in 1691), by boasting to himself about how learned he was and listing and briefly describing the books he had read. Evidently he had had a considerable private library. Most of the works and authors mentioned were unknown to me, but I did recognize
