There was no doubt about it; Thomas was about to excel himself. From the wine to the doilies via the canapés, he had forgotten nothing, skimped on nothing. This evening’s soirée did not come out of University College’s hospitality budget, so it all devolved on Margaret Murray. But she had chosen her guests well and tonight she hoped for some answers.
She had hired the Senior Common Room, the fire was crackling in the grate and the college servants had been given the night off. Thomas was literally head cook and bottle washer, but he liked it that way, a jack of all trades and master of them all.
‘Thomas.’ Margaret was folding napkins. It gave her something to do before the guests arrived, even if it was encroaching on Thomas’s domain.
‘Yes, Prof?’ Thomas was holding up a wine glass to the light, twisting it critically this way and that.
‘Can I put a hypothetical case to you?’
‘Hype away,’ Thomas said, huffing on the glass and polishing away a recalcitrant speck with his cloth.
‘Imagine someone came across a box, a box that did not belong to them but a box that was locked and looked intriguing. As a man of the world, which I know you to be, what might be inside, do you suppose?’
Tom laid out the glasses just so, lining them up by eye. ‘Would that be the box you showed me the other day?’ he asked her. ‘At the Bentham?’
‘It might be,’ she said, pulling out the centre of a waterlily with practised fingers. ‘It might be.’
‘Nice.’ He pointed to her handiwork and she nodded, pleased. She had always been clever with her hands and it always paid to have something up one’s sleeve, should archaeology ever fail to please her. ‘Hmm.’ He closed his eyes, the better to remember the dimensions of the box. ‘Six by ten,’ he said, ‘give or take.’ He looked at her. ‘Street value’s difficult,’ he said, ‘and the fence’s role is vital. If the contents are lifted, selling on the open market’s risky. And of course, if the contents are well known, even if just to experts such as yourself, then the riskier it becomes.’
Instinctively, Margaret’s mind was focusing on hoards. ‘Gold,’ she said. ‘Coins. Probably first century.’
‘Top of the market,’ Tom nodded. ‘But coins are specific, aren’t they? Got kings’ heads or whatever on ’em. For that, or silver, come to that, you’d need – and you didn’t hear this from me – Lemmy Izlebit of Old Jewry. Failing him – and some people have – Isaac Farben, off of Bevis Marks. The Chosen People have got the precious metals market pretty well sewn up.’
‘What about diamonds?’
The archaeologist was out of her depth already, but gems were not called the killing stones for nothing and it seemed that at least two people, perhaps three, were dead as a result.
‘I reckon that’ll be Gregorius Hendrick, New Bond Street. Or, at a pinch, Wyndham’s.’
Margaret was horrified. ‘Wyndham’s?’ she repeated. ‘But they’re a reputable auction house.’
Tom tapped the side of his nose. ‘And I’m Joan of Arc,’ he said. ‘Trust me, Prof. You show me an honest auctioneer and I’ll show you a good time – oh, begging your pardon, of course.’
‘We might be thinking too literally here, Thomas,’ Margaret said. ‘What if the box contained something of other value? Not intrinsic. It could be parchment, wood, paper, even. But it could be priceless.’
‘Well, that’s where I’d have to bow out, Prof,’ Thomas said, counting the forks and allowing for extras. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the Rosetta Stone wouldn’t fit into the box I have in mind, but it opened the ancient world to us in a way that makes it absolutely unique.’
‘Is that a diamond?’ Thomas asked. ‘A sort of Koh-i-Noor of Koh-i-Noors?’
Margaret smiled. ‘No, it’s a block of marble, but it carries vital translations, from Latin back to Greek and to Egyptian hieroglyphs. That’s how we can read the tomb art of the various dynasties.’
‘It might be how you can!’ Thomas laughed.
‘The stone was found at Rosetta by archaeologists working under Champollion.’
‘Get away!’
‘And he in turn was working for General Bonaparte.’
‘Ah.’ Thomas clicked his fingers. ‘Now him, I have heard of – the man who gave the world Chicken Marengo!’
They both laughed this time.
‘But if I’m right about the content of the box’ – Margaret was thinking aloud – ‘what could it possibly be?’
Thomas swept away in search of menu card holders. ‘Well, it could be the Holy Grail,’ he said. ‘What’s that Old Testament thing? The Ark of the Covenenant.’
‘Am I right,’ Margaret asked, ‘in believing there are collectors out there? Men – and women, I hasten to add – who would pay a small fortune for the right article?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Tom nodded. ‘It’s just a matter of finding ’em. A lot of your millionaires have private collections they’ve paid through the nose for; the Rothschilds, the Carnegies, Rockefellers, all that crowd. I happen to know that old man Dietrichson has the finest collection of erotica outside the Vatican. And you can’t get that stuff at the Army & Navy’s – I know, I’ve tried.’
There was a knock at the door and Margaret answered it. ‘Inspector.’ She smiled as a squat, bearded man swept off his hat.
‘I’m not late, I hope,’ he said.
‘Dear me, no; in fact, you’re the first. Will you have a sherry?’
Edmund Reid’s smile froze when he saw the waiter, but not as quickly as the waiter’s froze when he saw the inspector.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Reid said through clenched teeth. ‘Nice to see you out.’
‘Mr Reid,’ Tom said, a rictus grin on his face. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘It has,’ Reid nodded. ‘Lord and Lady Adderley’s, ninety-three.’
‘That was ninety-four,’ Thomas corrected him. ‘And if you remember, nothing proved. You’re thinking of that bracelet lay in ninety-three.’
Reid clicked his fingers. ‘Of course I am,’ he agreed. ‘But what I remember in the Adderley case is that the magistrate on that occasion was older than God and didn’t really understand the question. You got off lightly.’
‘Well, bygones, eh?’ Tom’s laugh was brittle, largely because Reid’s memory was long.
‘I assume, Dr Murray,’ the inspector said, ‘from the fact that he’s standing here, that you know this reprobate.’
Margaret tutted. ‘Reprobation is in the eye of the beholder, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I take it that you gentlemen have something of a history?’
‘You could say that,’ Reid nodded, and took the glass gingerly from Tom.
‘It’s not poison, Mr Reid,’ Margaret said. ‘Thomas, take the inspector’s hat.’
‘And make sure I get it back,’ Reid growled.
‘You will,’ Tom muttered. ‘It wouldn’t be worth the shoe leather taking it down to uncle.’
‘Boys! Boys!’ Margaret chuckled and settled down by the fire with Reid.
‘This is very pleasant.’ The inspector raised his glass. ‘To crime,’ he said.
‘God rot Arthur Evans,’ she riposted. ‘But, funnily enough, crime is why I invited you.’
‘And I thought it was for my charm and after-dinner chat.’
‘Inspector Dier,’ Margaret gushed, ‘you are one of the most charming men I’ve ever met. And you can talk about what you like after dinner. Pre-prandially, however, can we focus on the late Helen Richardson and the late Emma Barker?’
Reid nodded. ‘Back in the day,’ he said, ‘I’d be looking at a baize wall at the Yard. It would be covered in little pieces of paper which a minion would move about on my command. There’d be lots of tea and cigar smoke and I’m afraid the language could get quite colourful.’
‘Well,’ Margaret smiled, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do with sherry for the moment. And as for the bits of paper, they’re in my head, I’m afraid, along with a great deal of irrelevant rubbish. As to the language, well, the night is young.’
She crossed the room and topped up their sherries. ‘Imagine I’m a minion,’ she said, ‘a detective sergeant, perhaps. No, make me a constable. Make it simple for me.’
Reid laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, is it, Margaret?’ he said. ‘But all right. I’ll play along. Helen and Emma. What’s the common ground, apart from the fact that they’re both dead, of course?’
‘Both women,’ Margaret said. Clearly, she was taking her role as rookie constable very seriously.
‘Both archaeology students.’ Reid was sharpening the focus.
‘But from different colleges,’ Margaret came back at him. ‘And Helen was very much part time. Only attended the Friday lectures for the general public.’
‘How is that different from the regulars?’ Reid wanted to know. ‘What do full-timers get that part-timers don’t, apart from the hours, of course?’
‘Part-timers don’t attend tutorials or write essays or undertake research. They also don’t go on digs.’
‘Whereas Emma did, hence the goings on at Hampton.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Would their paths have crossed?’ Reid asked. ‘In the general scheme of things?’
‘Unlikely.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘It is possible for students of other colleges to attend Friday lectures, but it’s not usual. What about Helen’s other calling? What we should rather inaccurately call her day job?’
‘I’ve been looking into that,’ Reid said. ‘Or rather, one of my Yard contacts did it for me. She really was a telephonist, at the Exchange. We’d have to call soliciting her twilight job, I suppose.’
‘And Emma?’
Reid shook his head. ‘I met her friend, the girl she shared an apartment with. Her father had thrown her out, but her mother had given her some money and I think gave her more when she could.’ Reid looked solemn. He couldn’t shake off the memory of William Barker, and he had known some wrong ’uns in his life. ‘Her friend is fairly successful, in the art world in a small way, so she managed. There don’t seem to be any sudden bursts of unexplained income.’
‘Immoral earnings?’ Margaret checked. ‘They’re not sudden bursts, are they?’
‘Such a silly phrase, isn’t it, immoral earnings?’ Reid said, sipping his sherry. ‘But no; no hint of that.’ He knew he would have to give more details soon and although he had decided that Margaret Murray was next to impossible to shock, he wasn’t looking forward to it.
‘What about men?’ Margaret asked, ‘Given that you’re all beasts, of course.’ She winked at him.
‘Well, in the case of Emma, there was one to whom she had been close, but that seemed to be over. There was mention of another, more recently, but the apartment-mate didn’t have his name. In any case, she was more interested in said apartment-mate, if you catch my drift.’ He took a deep breath. It was good to get it over. Tom, over in his corner polishing cutlery, gave a little chuckle. It was well known Inspector Dier was a bit of an old woman sometimes.
‘Ah, Sappho,’ Margaret nodded. ‘The Greek island of Lesbos.’
‘If you say so,’ Reid said. ‘Whereas, almost by definition, there were several men in Helen Richardson’s life – her landlord, her rent collector, her neighbour and an unknown number of clients. What did you find in Emma’s box, by the way?’
‘Ah, yes, the box. Apart from the letter which you have, there were lots of cryptic notes, some in Latin, that led me to the poetry of William Blake.’
‘Who?’
‘Quite. It was all rather rambling.’
‘Rambling?’
‘Oblique. Off the point. Not – unforgivable in an archaeologist – calling a spade a spade.’
‘But that’s her,’ Reid said.
‘What is?’
‘The way Emma’s mind worked. Marjy – her friend – explained it to me. Quirk of the brain, I suppose. She used aide-memoires rather than direct notes.’
‘I do that,’ Tom said, moving round the table, laying places. ‘To remember customers and what they order. You, for example, Prof, I always picture you with a crown on. Victoria sponge. Simple. That student of yours, Veronica of the butterfly cakes, is an imago. I only learned that word the other day.’
Reid nodded. ‘That’s it, more or less.’
‘Hmm,’ Margaret mused. ‘It doesn’t help us, though. One enigma wrapped up inside another one. Ah.’
There was a knock at the door and Margaret bustled across to answer it. ‘Angela, Mr Crawford, lovely to see you. Thomas, sherries for our guests.’
There were introductions all round, though only Angela and Reid didn’t know each other. Soon, while Tom brought in the food from the kitchen down the hall, they were all sitting at the dining table.
Tom and Margaret had decided to dine à la française, mainly because it wasn’t going to work any other way, as Tom explained in his inimitable style. ‘It ain’t going to work, Prof,’ he had said. ‘If we do it Russian style, I’ll meet my arse going back. It’s all on the table at once, or nothing.’
The table did look wonderful, frog or not, as Tom pointed out. The curry puffs were golden and light as feathers. The Waldorf salad was a revelation to everyone but Thomas and the table was silent but for chewing.
Reid, who liked his food, pointed wordlessly at his plate with his fork, making querying motions with his eyebrows.
‘Waldorf salad,’ Thomas said, correctly interpreting the signs. ‘A friend of mine in the catering trade invented it for some charity do and I confess I nicked it. Nice, innit?’
‘It’s lovely, Thomas,’ Angela said. ‘And what’s this?’ She held up a spear of asparagus covered with a brittle batter.
Thomas looked uncomfortable. He had expected well-brought-up young ladies to recognize common vegetables. ‘Asparagus, miss,’ he said.
‘But it’s out of season, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Apart from that, though, it was these crispy bits I was really asking after.’
‘Tempura batter, miss. Japanese, that is. And nothing’s out of season in London, not if you know the right people.’
Reid raised his eyebrow.
‘All above board, Mr Reid, all above board. My sister’s youngest is a porter down the Garden.’
When the savouries had all gone and the desserts had taken their place, the conversation returned to the nights in question.
‘What did the Kent Constabulary make of poor Emma’s death?’ Margaret asked Reid. ‘Have they decided?’
‘I thought I’d have to go a long way to find a force as moronic as the Met,’ the ex-inspector told her. ‘No offence, Constable Crawford, of course. And then, lo and behold, there they were, on the doorstep of the place I intend to make my new home, all along. All rather depressing.’
Crawford couldn’t help but snort.
‘What was Inspector Blunt’s take on Helen Richardson’s death, Detective Constable?’ Reid asked him.
‘Suicide, Mr Reid,’ Crawford said, ‘while the balance of mind, et cetera.’
‘Well.’ Reid smiled, like the crafty poker player he was. ‘I’ll see your suicide and I’ll raise you a wandering lunatic.’
‘What?’ Angela looked up from her Charlotte Russe. Crawford, across the table from her, thought how adorable she looked with a blob of cream on her chin.
‘The Kent Constabulary’s verdict on the death of Emma Barker,’ Reid said, looking hard and sideways at Tom, even as the man topped up his wine. ‘The county’s crawling with them.’
‘Is that true?’ Angela Friend was a little at sea in this conversation. She was a clever girl, quick and intuitive, but she had not been brought up to this and the only bodies she knew anything about had been dead for centuries.
‘No,’ Reid chuckled. ‘Oh, London, yes. On the Ripper case, we had more wandering lunatics than Tom here has served … hot dinners.’ He smiled at the man and Tom scowled in return. ‘But that’s the biggest city in the world for you. It breeds peculiarities; men who talk to themselves or invisible friends; women who wheel puppies around in perambulators; dribbling maniacs who feed from the gutters. But Kent? Not so much.’
‘But it happens, though?’ Angela would not let it go.
‘No doubt it does,’ Reid sighed. ‘But it’s incredibly rare. No one likes to think of their nearest and dearest being killed by daddy, mummy, kind old Uncle John, the vicar. They’d rather it was a menacing-looking stranger, with wild eyes and bloody teeth. And if he’s a foreigner, so much the better. We never caught the Whitechapel murderer, but he was a local man, of the same social class as the women he killed. That’s how he got away with it – knew those mean streets better than any of us.’
‘So,’ Margaret said, ‘the Metropolitan Police – saving your presence again, Mr Crawford – have washed their hands of Helen Richardson. The Kent Constabulary, ditto Emma Barker. Which brings us to Norman.’
Reid smiled. ‘I wondered when you’d get round to him,’ he said.
‘Oh, but that’s completely different,’ Angela said. ‘Poor Helen was poisoned. Emma …’ She suddenly wasn’t sure.
‘Strangled,’ Reid explained. ‘I may not trust the Kent police, but I trust the evidence of my own eyes. She was strangled.’
‘Strangled,’ Angela repeated, her point made, ‘whereas Dr Minton …’ She looked at Crawford.
‘Heavy object,’ he said. ‘Probably from behind.’
‘Probably a statuette of Mercury,’ Reid added.
‘Mercury!’ Angela clicked her fingers. ‘Of course. Mercury is a poison, isn’t it? Helen was poisoned. It all makes sense now … doesn’t it?’
Margaret couldn’t help chuckling, despite the grim topic under discussion. ‘There is such a thing as being too clever, Angela,’ she said, but in a kindly way; she wouldn’t have wanted to hurt the girl’s feelings for the world.
‘You’ve talked to the coroner, Crawford?’ Reid asked.
‘I have. Surprisingly little to go on. The murder weapon was there, in Minton’s office.’
‘So’ – Reid was reasoning it out – ‘not planned.’
‘I wouldn’t say so,’ Crawford said, ‘but please remember, Inspector Reid, I am sort of new to all this.’
Reid shook his head. ‘Experience only counts for so much, lad,’ he said. ‘Being a copper is all about a nose, a sixth sense. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. In the case of Ethel Blunt, now …’
Tom, leaving the room with a stack of plates, snorted. ‘Ethel couldn’t find his arse with both hands, excuse my French, ladies,’ he said. ‘I know blokes who’d plan their jobs for when they knew Ethel was on duty.’
Reid nodded and for once, Tom nodded back.
‘So, if I’m right …’ Reid continued.
‘And you are,’ Margaret said.
The ex-inspector laughed. ‘If I’m right, our friend hadn’t planned the attack on Minton. He lost his temper, panicked, whatever. Hence, no weapon brought with him. Hence, no attempt to cover things up.’
‘It had to be someone who knew the college,’ Crawford said. ‘The Archaeology department isn’t the easiest place to find.’
‘But I’ve seen better security in a sieve,’ Reid pointed out. ‘What have we got? One nightwatchman?’
‘Name of Jenkins,’ Crawford said.
‘Eyes everywhere,’ Angela chimed in, ‘but only in the direction of female students.’
Margaret forbore to mention that that included female staff too.
‘Assuming that our murderous friend is male’ – Reid was thinking aloud – ‘he might have missed him entirely. You were present at the interview with Inkester?’
Crawford looked at the former policeman. ‘News travels fast,’ he said. His eyes swivelled to Margaret Murray.
‘Don’t look at me, Mr Crawford,’ she said, hands up. ‘I couldn’t possibly divulge.’
Reid laughed. ‘I used to live in this town,’ he said. ‘My patch. My manor. It doesn’t take long to winkle things out.’
‘He had no alibi for the night Minton died,’ Crawford said, ‘and, if rumours are true, he had the motive.’
‘Oh, they’re true all right,’ Margaret said. ‘I hate to be the one to gossip, but the Stinkster must be the only one in the college not to know about Elspeth’s peccadilloes. He’s very focused, is Walter; more concerned with armadillos than peccadilloes.’
‘Unless that was a front,’ Reid reasoned. ‘Unless he knew all about Minton and the missus, or had recently discovered it. It must have festered, too. He surely didn’t catch them in flagrante or he’d have caved the man’s head in, then and there. He thought about it, worried at it. And then …’
‘But if he didn’t take a weapon with him,’ Crawford pointed out, ‘there’s no intent.’
‘His Defence could argue that, certainly,’ Reid said. ‘Perhaps he just went to confront him; to have it out, man to man.’
‘We’re all forgetting one thing,’ Margaret said. ‘The state of Norman’s study. The killer was looking for something. And I think what he was looking for was the papers I was talking about earlier, Edmund – Emma Barker’s oblique ramblings. There has to be a link with the girls.’
‘Crawford?’ Reid turned to the man.
The constable shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Different gender, different age. Three different settings, two inside, one out. Of course, we don’t know exactly where Emma Barker was killed, do we?’
‘No, we don’t,’ Reid admitted. ‘Only where she was left.’
‘Well,’ Margaret sighed, finishing her wine. ‘While we’re all pondering that one, while Thomas is clearing away, let’s retire to my inner sanctum for coffee and a rather delectable little port I have waiting. I think I can make the kettle work.’
They clattered along the corridors, past the marble busts of the great and good who had been there at University College’s birth pangs. They padded up the carpets of the annexe stairs, past the scene of a man’s death. They’d all been there – Angela to the occasional tutorial; Margaret to discuss all manner of arcane matters with her colleague and to get back the books he had borrowed on a weekly basis; the two policemen treading carefully to avoid that same colleague’s blood and worse.
‘And what of the Stinkster?’ Margaret asked Crawford. ‘How is Walter bearing up under all this?’
‘We bailed him,’ Crawford said. ‘Couldn’t do much else at this stage. My guv’nor, of course, still thinks he’s got his man.’
Margaret’s eyes rolled heavenward. ‘Oh, God.’ Her hand flew up involuntarily to her mouth as she opened her study door.
‘What is it, Margaret?’ Reid asked, looking around for what might have startled the woman.
‘I’ve been robbed,’ she said.
‘What?’ Crawford said. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well,’ Margaret said, bustling into the room, ‘when I say “robbed”, that may be a supposition too far. But I’ve certainly been disturbed.’
Angela frowned, looking in all directions. She knew this office well, the scrolls of parchment, the untidy piles of books, some of them toppled, the artefacts from Ur and Nineveh and Luxor. She couldn’t see anything different.
‘Well,’ said Reid, hands on hips. ‘Somebody’s certainly had a right old go at this place.’
Margaret snapped at him, despite herself. She had a soft spot for the retired inspector, it had to be said, but he was, after all, a man and she couldn’t let her reputation take that sort of knock without a challenge. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘It always looks like this. Except …’ and she pointed to a high shelf.
‘Except what, Dr Murray?’ Crawford asked.
‘Except for Mrs Plinlimmon,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘I may not know as much about stuffed owls as Walter Inkester, but I do know they don’t move by themselves. She’s five inches to the left and looking in the wrong direction.’
All eyes turned to the owl, who wore her usual inscrutable expression despite having been interfered with. Mrs Plinlimmon wasn’t even dusted on a regular basis, so it was extraordinary that she had taken it all so well. Checking on the rest of the room wasn’t so easy. The chaos was, according to its resident, deliberate and, like Sherlock Holmes, she could tell how important things were from the thickness of dust. This was quickly proved to be untrue, however.
‘Dr Murray!’ Angela’s voice was shrill with outrage. ‘What’s this?’ She waved a slim wodge of paper in the air.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and waited with bated breath while Margaret thumbed through it.
‘Oh, goodness, Angela. Nothing to get excited about. Continue the search, everyone.’
‘No, don’t let’s continue the search,’ Angela said, rather coldly. ‘It’s pointless as only you will know what has been disturbed, Dr Murray. And thank you for telling me that an unmarked essay of mine from March 1898 is nothing to get excited about. It’s not great research, probably, but it meant a lot to me.’
Margaret drew herself up as much as possible and looked disposed to argue.
‘That is a little unreasonable,’ Reid said, in placatory terms. ‘I don’t know if you agree, Dr Murray, but I think it would be helpful if you could go through this room with a fine-tooth comb and perhaps weed out everything that you no longer need. Starting with the piles of paper. Miss Friend is quite right, we are not helping at all. We can’t possibly know what belongs here and what doesn’t.’
‘But I … but I’m terribly busy,’ Margaret blustered. ‘It’s hard to keep up with everything …’ No one in the room had ever seen her look deflated before, but Angela’s outrage had won the day. Polite to the last, her guests said goodnight and thank you for a lovely evening, finally leaving her alone with the owl. She heard their voices dwindle down the corridor and then everything was silence. She pulled a chair over and climbed up to reposition what seemed to be her only friend.
Clambering down, she spoke as much to herself as to Mrs Plinlimmon. ‘Well,’ she said softly. ‘Where to start? To dust or not to dust? Throw or keep?’ She picked up Angela’s essay from where it had been thrown down on the desk and looked at it with a sigh. ‘Perhaps the living do deserve more attention than the dead, eh, Mrs P?’
Coming to a decision, she extinguished the lights.
‘But that’s for another day, I think.’
On their way out of the building, Reid, Crawford and Angela passed the Senior Common Room just as Tom came out of the kitchen and turned the key.
‘Oh, you leaving already?’ he said in some surprise. ‘The Prof’s parties usually go on longer than this. I’ve known ’em all come over to the Bentham for breakfast before now.’
‘There was … an incident,’ Reid said, diplomatically. ‘Dr Murray thinks someone may have been in her room without her knowledge.’
‘Blimey,’ Tom said. ‘How could she tell? I’ve seen dustheaps tidier than the Prof’s room.’
Angela was rebuilding her head of steam but quiet pressure from Crawford’s hand on hers pre-empted the explosion.
‘We’ve left her tidying up, checking if anything is missing,’ Reid said.
Tom glanced along the corridor. ‘I suppose she needs a hand …’ His unwillingness to get involved was palpable.
‘I think she’s best left to do it herself,’ Crawford said. ‘Like you say, it’s a bit of a tangle in there.’
Tom nodded. He could read a hidden meaning as well as the next man. ‘Right, then. I’ll just give the table in here a final wipe and I’ll be away. Goodnight, all.’
‘Goodnight, Tom,’ Angela said. ‘What was that thing, that nut thing called again?’
‘Waldorf salad,’ Tom said. ‘Put your head into the kitchen at the Bentham any time and I’ll give you the recipe.’
‘Thank you.’ Angela turned up the collar of her coat and Adam linked his arm in hers. ‘I’ll be in soon. Goodnight.’
‘’Night.’
At the front door, they had a quick word with Jenkins, having woken him up, Adam keeping Angela on the lee side, away from any wandering hands. They had the problem of all parties the world over since the first hominid shared a bit of leftover mammoth with his neighbour. How to walk away from someone you have spent the evening with, without seeming rude. But eventually, the small talk petered out and, with gestures as to which way would lead them home, they turned, two to the left, one to the right, into Gower Street.
Reid took a few steps and turned to watch the other two. He would not have said he was lonely, but he missed the company of younger people and watching Angela and Crawford walking arm in arm, his fair head bent to her dark one, her face turning up to his for what he assumed was an illicit kiss, made him feel young again. He smiled; they had it all to come and he hoped that the smiles would outweigh the tears. As he turned to continue his walk back to his hotel, he heard Tom behind him, talking to Jenkins behind the closed doors of the University building. He smiled again. Tom was one of the bad ’uns he wouldn’t mind meeting again. His crimes never hurt anyone, except in the pocket, and he was pleased to see that he had made good. It had been a long time coming, but he had made it in the end.
Turning his collar up and rewrapping his scarf against the cold and foggy night, he set off. The Tambour House Hotel was a step up from his temporary home in Hampton-on-Sea. Instead of the terrifying Mrs Mulvahey there was a rather snooty clerk in attendance at the front desk, the day one being rather the snootier of the two. He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket after much fumbling with layers of coat and scarf and noted with approval that the night clerk would be on duty now. He had discovered that with the swift application of a florin, he could have a brandy and hot chocolate delivered to his room. He squared his shoulders and picked up his pace; if he didn’t dawdle, he could be there in another twenty minutes or thereabouts.
Angela and Crawford wandered slowly and even more slowly as her front door drew nearer. The evening had been a success until the last few minutes and Angela was beginning to feel a little silly for reacting so badly to finding her essay languishing there. After all, how much did it matter, in the end? She had her degree, she had been taken on to do further research towards yet another and she would be a doctor soon, perhaps, like Margaret Murray. And yet … she snuggled up to the warm body next to her and clutched his arm a little tighter. Was that, when everything was said and done, what she wanted out of life? Was being a wife and mother that bad? Bringing children into the world, teaching them all she knew; that was all right, surely?
Finally, they reached the front door. However slowly you walked, Crawford thought, a destination would be reached eventually. He turned to Angela and pulled her to him. This evening, being invited as a couple, walking home alone in the cold in companionable silence, seemed to be a bit of a watershed. Something had happened, but he wasn’t sure what.
‘Adam, I’ve been thinking …’
Ah, perhaps he knew what now. He had heard those words, not often but often enough, before.
‘What? What have you been thinking? Because I have also been thinking.’ Better to take the bull by the horns.
‘It’s about my degree …’
‘It’s about us …’
‘I don’t want to do it any more …’
‘Will you marry me?’
‘I just want to get married, have babies … pardon?’
‘What?’
And after that, silence.