Anonymous Sources (7 page)

I ticked again through my plan. Taxi from the bus terminal to the hotel. Drop my bags in my room, splash some water on my face, and get going. I was pretty sure I remembered how to get to Emmanuel College. I had lived just a short walk away in Corpus Christi College during my time at Cambridge. And I'd had friends in Emmanuel. I'd eaten dinner there a few times, met for pints of warm lager in the Emmanuel student bar. I vaguely remembered ducks, some sort of pond.

But the main thing I remembered about Emmanuel was that it was full of Americans. Specifically, Harvard students. Dozens of them rotating in and out on various exchanges and fellowships. I'd done some research on my laptop as I waited at the gate for my flight to be called. The Emmanuel website bragged happily about its most famous alum: John Harvard, who of course went on to lend his name to the world's most famous university. He'd spent his own student years in England, at Emmanuel, back in the 1620s and '30s. The two universities had nurtured the relationship in the intervening four centuries. And at some point, they established the most coveted fellowship of all: the official Harvard Scholar.

I say most coveted because apparently Harvard Scholars enjoy three key privileges. First, they're forbidden to take exams or pursue a degree during their year at Cambridge. In other words, they're forbidden to actually study much. This is because of privilege number two: they are required to throw as many parties as possible. Seriously. The scholarship, I read with interest, comes with a five-figure entertaining budget. The idea is to serve as a kind of resident Harvard ambassador to the university. Of course, this is Cambridge, so the partying probably leans more toward black-tie banquets and sherry tastings than all-night kegfests. Still, not bad work if you can get it.

This was how Thom Carlyle had spent the past year. He would also have enjoyed the third perk: the Harvard room. Make that rooms. Two
bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a huge sitting room in the most imposing old dorm in the college, reserved each year for the new Harvard Scholar. Thom had presumably been living there until three days ago.

If I could find the Harvard room, I might find his bedder. And then I might be onto something.

BY MIDMORNING, I WAS STANDING
outside the front gate of Emmanuel College. I brushed my hair behind my ears and checked my earrings. I hadn't wanted to take the time to change, so I was still wearing what I'd worn on the plane: cotton summer dress, Chanel ballet flats, a cream cashmere cardigan. It wasn't the most businesslike attire, but then that wasn't the point. Today my task was getting women to talk to me. Thom's bedder. His girlfriend. I needed to appear nonthreatening, nice.

From the street, Emmanuel looked grubby. Passing cars had blackened the stone façade. Soot stained the windowpanes. Emmanuel wasn't as imposing as some of Cambridge University's thirty other colleges. Today it didn't look particularly welcoming either. The heavy iron front gate was locked tight and a sign outside read
COLLEGE CLOSED TO VISITORS
. I ignored this. The sign was meant for tourists; I considered myself exempt.

I stepped through a narrow side door and into the porters' lodge. From behind a counter, two porters looked up. It's the same system in every college: A handful of usually plump, usually gruff old men are charged with guarding the college gates. They also deliver the mail, prowl the grounds, and chase tourists and drunken students from the pristine lawns.

“Hi, just dropping this in the pigeonholes,” I said. I waved a piece of paper from my bag and kept moving. Did students still have mail pigeonholes? Or did everyone just text each other these days?

“Hallo there. Can we help you, miss?” The porter acted as though he hadn't heard me.

“Oh, I'm fine. Just dropping this.” I waved the piece of paper again.

“Ah, an American, is it? Visiting today?”

I did not have time to get into a lengthy conversation. And I suspected that the truth—that I was a reporter trying to sneak into the private quarters of a recently deceased student—would not go down so well.

Instead I pretended to pout. “Why, don't you remember me? Alexandra James, from a few years ago? I was in Corpus Christi. But I used to eat lunch here after lectures. I'm just back for a visit. I need to say hello to some people.”

Then I batted my lashes at him. I am constantly amazed that men actually fall for this. But they do. The porter looked entranced.

“Well, then. Welcome back, love. Know where you're going?”

“Absolutely.” I smiled prettily and turned through the far door, into Front Court.

FRONT COURT WAS LOVELY, I
remembered now. A perfect square. Cloisters framed an ancient clock rising above a Sir Christopher Wren chapel. The pale stone here glowed, unsullied by the cars crawling past outside.

I didn't have any idea where I was going, but I didn't want to let on in case the porters were watching. So I strode across the cobbles, under archways, until the court opened into a wide meadow. Here were the ducks I remembered. The pond. I looked around, then walked up to a girl sprawled on the grass—apparently not taboo in this particular part of the college.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, but I'm trying to find the room where John Harvard used to live. Isn't it somewhere right around here?”

She looked up, registered my American accent, nodded. They must get tourists in here all the time. And I'm sure the Americans all ask where John Harvard lived. “That building there.” She pointed. “Old Court. Don't think he really lived there, though.”

I thanked her and walked over. It was a graceful old brick façade. I counted three entrances, and I headed toward the one she had indicated. Inside a bike leaned against the wall. Music blared from behind a door. The dorm was clearly occupied, even over the summer. I started to climb. Steep, battered stairs. There was nothing to indicate I was in the right place. But on the second-floor landing I caught my breath.
T. A. CARLYLE
, read small letters painted neatly above a doorway.

I tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer, of course. Now what?

I scampered back down the stairs and into the sunlight. Presumably the same bedder would clean all three stairwells. Morning was the logical time to clean. So maybe she was around, busy in one of the other entrances just now. I checked the second entry. Nothing. But sure enough, the door to the third entry was propped open by a vacuum cleaner. I walked up the stairs until I spied an open bedroom door. Someone inside was whistling.

I peeked my head around the door and rapped softly. A woman glanced up. Fiftysomething, baggy flowered skirt, permed hair going gray, a sponge in her hand. Bingo.

I asked the obvious question. “Are you the bedder here?”

“Yes.” She looked wary. Probably pegged me for a tourist and was getting ready to shoo me out.

“Great. So I—I wonder if you can help me. My name is Alexandra James. You must have known Thomas Carlyle?”

I could see that caught her by surprise. She was staring, trying to size me up. Finally she nodded.

“I'm so sorry about the news. I . . .” I paused. It would be easy to pass myself off as a friend, a sister even. But I do have some scruples. It's
one thing to bend the rules to get into a place, another thing to lie to a source. So now I needed to tell the truth. But I would probably only get one chance, and this woman might slam the door on a reporter.

I went with this: “I'm from Boston. Where Thomas was from. I'm trying to figure out what happened. How he died, I mean. I was hoping—I didn't know if it might be possible to look in his room? To see if he left anything? Or just to see what it looked like?”

She shook her head. “No, you'd have to ask the porters about that. But he didn't leave anything. I mean, mind you—he left a right mess, but it's tidy now. I've tidied it. Bless him. Poor lad.”

“I see. I've come all the way over, though—could I just stick my head inside? Just in case?”

She shook her head again, more firmly this time. “Are you family?”

“No.” It was time to come clean. “I'm a reporter, actually. With a big newspaper in Boston. But I don't want to disturb anything or get anyone in trouble. I have to write a story about what happened to him. So I wanted to see what his life here was like. Can you—could you help me?”

“No, you'll have to talk to the porters, love. Or the master. You shouldn't be here.” As predicted, the woman was shooing me out, trying to close the door.

I took a breath and changed tactics. “Sure. Sorry to trouble you. I guess I need to find someone who might know who he was friendly with. Or, you know, whether anything might have been troubling him. Someone who knows what was going on behind the scenes around here.”

I stood back and watched her twitch. She would be struggling with herself. It was a point of pride among bedders to know precisely what was going on behind the scenes. But after a few seconds, she pursed her lips tight and shook her head.

“Well, thank you anyway.” I sighed. “You couldn't possibly point me toward a cup of tea on the way out? I'm just off the plane and parched
for a good cup. They don't know how to make tea properly in America, you know.”

She seemed to relax slightly. A young lady in need of tea was something she could handle. And quite right that Americans didn't brew it correctly. “They'll have tea in the dining hall. Should be opening for mealtime shortly.”

“Could you show me which way that is? I'm a bit turned around.”

She nodded curtly. Led me out of the room, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her. We climbed down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

She waited until we were outside before she spoke again. “That's the Harvard room.” She tilted her head up toward a pair of windows on the second floor.

I followed her gaze. “And he just moved out earlier this week?”

“Yes. Left his room in a right state. Always so many people in and out.”

I waited for more, but she was silent.

“He had a girlfriend here. Was she—does she live here in college?”

“Petronella.” The woman nodded again. More silence.

“Petronella?” Where did the English come up with these names? “Would you know if she's still around? I mean, I suppose she'll be flying over to the States. For the funeral.”

Silence.

We kept walking.

“I'd love to speak to her. If she wants to, of course. I'm sure she's heartbroken. This must have been awful for her.”

Silence.

We walked on.

“A right tart, that one,” the bedder suddenly spat. “None of my business, mind you. But I wouldn't think she's exactly dying of heartbreak.”

I raised my eyebrows. Waited.

“Lives over there, in North Court.” She pointed. “And the dining hall's just there. They'll fix you up with some tea.”

“Thank you.” I hadn't gotten this woman's name. But the moment seemed to have passed. “Thanks very much.”

“Petronella Black,” she was muttering as she turned around. “A right piece of work, that one.”

    

    

T
he Emmanuel dining hall was painted robin's-egg blue.

Breakfast smells of fried tomatoes and bacon were still wafting from the kitchens. I was half-tempted to ask for some. There is nothing better for a hangover than a proper British cooked breakfast. Trust me. I would know.

But I was not hungover today. Just jet-lagged. And I was actually quite enjoying myself. It was a sparkling morning. Normally at this time I'd be stuck listening to an endless faculty debate or plowing through the fine print of some graduate-school budget.

Truth be told, I was growing a bit weary of the education beat.
Not weary enough to move on. Not yet. But the day was coming when I would be ready to jump to a bigger pond. Washington, or back home to New York, or perhaps overseas. That is, if any foreign bureaus were left. Not a given considering the current state of the newspaper business.