Lessons in Power (2 page)
accompanied by an outbreak of backslapping, handshaking and general bonhomie. At least two of the three present were pleased at the reunion. For Ainslie, meeting Jonty and Orlando was the one positive thing to have come out of last summer’s holiday on Jersey, during which his father had been murdered and these two bright young men had solved the case.
“It’s wonderful to be here at last.” Ainslie breathed deep of the fresh Cambridge air, so much healthier than the latest London smog.
“All we needed was for you to get here.” Jonty’s grin couldn’t have been wider. “Now we can get a
pint of IPA inside ourselves before kick-off. Need the warmth and sustenance.”
It proved just as well; the first half of the match was slow, more laboured than they’d hoped, and only the thought of another pint of beer was going to see them through if the second half turned out just as dire.
Orlando went off to find the little boys’ room and discussion turned to matters of dangerous binding
in the scrum, when Morgan clapped Jonty on the back, sending him sprawling.
The man had been standing close by for the first half, obviously privy to the flow of wit and repartee which passed between the two fellows of Bride’s and their guest. “I’d never have thought to see old
Coppersmith in such high humour. What happened to him the last few years to make such a change?”
“Oh—” Jonty was, for once, lost for words. Why did people have to ask such bloody awkward
questions? Ones to which the wrong answer could lead to two years’ hard labour? “Ah, he, um, met a lady who had an extraordinary effect upon him.”
“The old dog. I was always convinced he would turn out to be a confirmed bachelor. Any sign of
wedding bells?”
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Charlie Cochrane
“I doubt it. She loves another, you know. Still, he burns a light for her.” Jonty was surprised by
Orlando slapping his shoulder. He wasn’t certain whether his lover had heard what he’d said, although the man would have to be blind not to notice Ainslie’s secretive grin.
The game began again, with a bit more swashbuckling spirit on display and, as always seemed to
happen, some wag asking whether the referee might benefit from borrowing Stewart’s spectacles. A stiff talking-to had no doubt been delivered with the half-time oranges and the end result of two goals all was regarded as being fair.
“Close call, eh?” Ainslie kept his voice low.
“The match or what
he
asked?” Jonty looked sidelong at his guest.
The crowds were wending their way back to colleges, pubs, the train station, wherever they’d come
from. Morgan had buttonholed Orlando and was bending his ear up ahead on the path from Grange Road to the river. It was getting dark, the lights of Cambridge appearing like stars in the gloaming.
“It’s always the same old story, isn’t it? Lies and subterfuge.” Ainslie shivered, as did his host. The growing coolness in the air didn’t chill them half as much as the thought of the many little deceptions which pervaded their lives.
“I know.” They’d reached the river Cam, Orlando still being regaled with rugby tales and looking like he was desperate to escape. “We’re off to college to change. Meet us in my set for a sherry before dinner.”
Jonty shook Ainslie’s hand, watched his neat, strong frame make its way along past St. Catherine’s, then set off to rescue his lover.
“Why did you have to say that?” Orlando’s room in St. Bride’s provided a sanctuary; here a man
could talk freely.
“Say what?” Jonty had forgotten all about the halftime banter. That was forty minutes of rugby, a
pleasant walk and a glass of sherry ago.
“About me meeting a lady who loved another. I could hear your voice a mile away. What sort of an
impression will they have of me? I thought you didn’t approve of lies.” Orlando was fuming. Far from
making him mellow, the beer had turned him belligerent.
“I don’t. Everything I said was true. You met my mama, who is without doubt a lady, and she has had
a great effect upon you. And you could never marry her, could you, even if you wanted to?” Jonty looked with regret at the old leather chair by the fire. A nap would be nice but he didn’t suppose he’d be allowed one.
“That’s being pedantic. It may have been the literal truth but it told a misleading story.”
10
Lessons in Power
“Well, would you rather I’d said that you’d discovered the delights of my bed, which is the reason
why you’re so much more confident and worldly wise? Think of the impression that would have caused,
Dr. Coppersmith.” Jonty knew that he was in the right, and he always made the most of moral superiority.
Orlando was about to argue, then sighed and shook his head. “No, I think this was one occasion when
the truth wouldn’t have paid.” He stared out of the window, musing. “I did wonder why he was being so friendly. He never used to make a point of talking to me.”
“You probably used to tell him off for sitting in your chair. Or standing on your bit of the pitch. Now that you’re a man of wide social experience, you give off a notable aura of
bon viveur
. Morgan no doubt sees that you’ve become much more fun to associate with and wishes to become one of your intimates.”
Jonty began shifting his clothes, or else they’d never make Hall.
“Don’t rag me. I was incredibly lonely at times at Oxford. I could have done with a bit more beer and camaraderie then.” Orlando hated referring to the loneliness of his pre-Jonty days (or “the blessed times of quiet” as he called them) and if he was doing so now, he must be feeling the emptiness of them.
“Oh, my love. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. We can’t ever go back and change
things can we? If we could, our formative years would all have been quite different.”
“I’m sorry.” Orlando’s loneliness now seemed very small beer compared to the horrors Jonty had
been forced to endure at school, experiences it had taken him a great deal of time to recover from. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t, whatever it was. Look, we’re neither of us the men we were and I daily thank
God for it.” Jonty, the beer still making his body and spirit glow, felt as though he’d made the wisest pronouncement since the days of Solomon, one which was beyond answer. He was wrong.
“Quite right, too.” Orlando fiddled with his cufflinks. “I know you hate it when I speculate about what would have happened if we hadn’t met, but I can’t help doing it.”
“What if we’d met
earlier
? I mean what if we’d been opponents in the Varsity Match? I couldn’t have failed to notice you, all gangly legs and unruly curls. I’d have thrown you into touch a few times then we’d have shared a few beers in the bar. It would have been so nice…” There was something about the
combination of rugby and beer which made the best of men maudlin.
Orlando snorted. “Well, we could hardly have commenced a relationship out there on the pitch, could
we? No, please don’t favour that with an answer. It gives you far too much capacity for making obscene jokes about releasing the ball in the tackle.”
“I do fantasise sometimes, about what it would have been like to find myself at the bottom of a maul
with you on top of me. Shame you mathematicians think it beneath yourselves to rummage up a rugger
team—the English mob could organise a fixture and, assuming your old Achilles was up to it…” Jonty
drifted off into pleasant reverie. He’d never seen his lover play the beautiful game, so it had become a favourite pastime to try to imagine it.
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Charlie Cochrane
“Perhaps I can persuade them.”
Jonty almost dropped his collar stud. “Do you mean it?”
“Indeed. There’s a few chaps new to the university who could well be encouraged to turn out. And I’d
enjoy it, too.” He smiled, full of mischief.
“Oh yes, Orlando? Being able to take me down in the tackle?”
“And rubbing your little nose into the mud a few times. Can’t think of anything better. On a rugby
field that is,” Orlando added with a grin. “In here, that’s another matter…”
But the other matter was never explored, any investigation cut short when Matthew Ainslie knocked
on the door in search of his glass of sherry.
High Table was excellent, a corner cut of beef being set off with fiery horseradish, and Yorkshire
puddings as light as a feather. Ariadne Peters, whose plain looks were always eclipsed by her sparkling conversation, proved as entertaining as ever, and her brother charmed Ainslie with his intelligent interest in publishing.
They took coffee, cheese and fruit in the Senior Common Room, and when Ainslie accidentally sat in
Orlando’s chair, the company waited with bated breath for the inevitable explosion of wrath. He astonished them all by sitting in the chair on the other side, letting Jonty take his normal seat. It was a gesture at once simple in its hospitality and profound in its sacrificial nature.
Jonty felt immensely proud of his lover’s good grace and resolved that he’d get an adequate reward
when they returned home. The conversation meandered on, the wine, quantities of food and warm
atmosphere having a soporific effect, so that Orlando soon suggested they take a little air before they all fell asleep. As the three men strolled along, the night air immediately counteracting the feelings of sleepiness, Ainslie spoke.
“Are you free for coffee tomorrow morning at, shall we say, eleven? I didn’t want to spoil this
evening with business, although tomorrow I’d be grateful if I could—” he seemed to be thinking of the correct term, “—consult you on a professional basis.”
Jonty bowed, with only a hint of facetiousness. “That makes us sound conspicuously like Holmes and
Watson. I’m available—are you, Dr. Coppersmith?”
Orlando’s face illustrated all the frustration he felt. “No, I’ve college business. And on a Saturday too.” He rolled his eyes.
“Then Dr. Stewart will have to take excellent notes, won’t he?” Ainslie smiled and strolled off,
leaving his friends to find a cab to take them back up the Madingley Road.
Ainslie had found a part of the University Arms where he and his guest could take coffee and talk
without being overheard, an important element in his plan, given the potentially delicate nature of the 12
Lessons in Power
discussion. A University College London man himself, he was enjoying his visit to such a hallowed seat of learning (still hallowed despite Jonty’s tales of his less-than-bright students).
Ainslie had ended up with a degree in literature, a taste for port and some interesting connections,
which meant he could indulge his inclination towards other men with both discretion and pleasure. A
discretion which had temporarily deserted him on Jersey although, thank the Lord, not one which had stood in the way of his friendship with Stewart and his more aloof companion.
He welcomed his guest at eleven on the dot, pouring out a cup of what proved to be an excellent brew.
They chatted amiably for a few moments, mainly about the university’s prospects in the forthcoming
cricket season, then Stewart felt it was time to open his own batting.
“You wanted to talk to us about some sort of case, I take it?”
“Indeed. I remember with extreme gratitude your help on Jersey and I know of your success both
before and after it.”
Stewart grinned. “You’ve been reading
The Times
, I suppose, and now you want us to poke our noses into something?”
“That’s an unusual way of putting it, but yes.” Ainslie was impressed to see Stewart produce, along
with his glasses, an elegant notepad and an equally elegant propelling pencil with which he began to make notes. The air of objective authority helped to make a painful situation rather more bearable. “I won’t beat about the bush. I have a friend who has been accused of murder. He assures me that he’s innocent and I believe that to be the truth. I would like you to see if you can find any evidence to support his case.”
“When is this due to come to court?” Stewart’s pencil tapped on the page.
“There’s likely to be a delay while an important medical witness is recalled from abroad, but we can’t be looking at much the other side of Easter.” The window gave a faint reflection. Ainslie, catching sight of his face, was shocked at how pale he’d turned.
Stewart was concerned. “And does his own counsel give him any hope?”
Ainslie stared out of the window, at the children playing on Parker’s Piece, their delight in running on the grass meaning nothing to his unseeing eyes. “Not very much.” All he could see was a face—not his own this time—a handsome young face. One that, time was, had been his greatest delight.
Stewart considered his next question. “If we find evidence that your friend is indeed guilty, what
then?”
Ainslie turned, his keen eyes fixing his guest’s equally candid ones. “Then he hangs. I’ll not have
facts suppressed just to bring about the desired result. I want the truth.” It hurt to speak every word, yet each had to be said.
Stewart patted his friend’s arm. “Good man. Couldn’t have taken the job without you having said that.
Now can I have some details? What’s your friend’s name?”
“Alistair Stafford.”
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Charlie Cochrane
“Should I know him? I’m sure I’ve heard the name before.”
“He’s the man who sent that letter to Jersey, detailing my alleged sins to someone who wished to
besmirch my reputation.” Ainslie watched the children playing yet didn’t see them, still registering in his mind’s eye a happier time and place.
“Matthew, I don’t understand, why should you choose to defend him of all people?”