The Company of Fellows (16 page)

“
Fine. To
answer your
four
questions: Mum’s indifferent because she thinks dad killed
himself. If he was murdered there has to be a motive, and whatever
that is I think we both know it’s going to dig up a lot of shit
she’s buried so deep not even you can see it. Which should answer
question two. Three, I know dad put all his research in the box. I
didn’t know that he’d actually sent it to you, but now I do I know
that rules out the killer having it. And, finally,” she downed the
rest of her pint as if to emphasise the point. “If dad thought you
had everything you need then there’s nothing left out.”

Tommy swirled
the beer in his glass. He looked at Becky as though he were
considering her answers, but she must have known that he thought
more quickly than that. Angry one minute, calm the next; defensive
one minute, then open; he found her impossible to fathom. Maybe it
was just that he had protected himself so long from grief, he
thought, that that was the one area of human emotion where he was
blind. “If you think there’s something buried that deep,” he said,
“then you think it’s got something to do with you. I think that’s
why you want to be involved.”

She had
slammed her glass down as though in a gesture of triumph, but he
could see that it was simply the finality of exhaustion. She’d had
too many hard days in a row: goading him to help her, treading on
eggshells around her mother, she’d had no time even to begin to
come to terms with any issues she had herself. Those issues weren’t
going to go away just because she had other things to do. They
would bang away relentlessly, demanding to be addressed and better
sooner than later. He could see her beginning to strain to hold her
head straight, to control the twitch of her eyelid. The time for
posturing, and the pretend haggling of the souk had gone. He spoke
softly, “I also think that’s why you don’t want me to tell you
everything, and why you don’t want me to lie.”

Becky made an
effort to smile, “OK,” she said. “You can ask anything. Just not
today. Deal?”

“
Deal.”

____

23

Becky had gone
straight home leaving Tommy to make his own way to dinner. Dinner
with her and Haydn would be the perfect chance to get to know the
mysterious Dr Shaw. But right in front of Becky, who had just made
him swear to keep his nose out of her mother’s business? Was it
really the best time? Maybe it was best to take his foot off the
pedal for the evening. He could let his subconscious do the work,
and respect Becky’s request at the same time. He drew a curtain in
his mind, pulling it tight as he pulled the collar together on his
black silk Nehru jacket.

It was
probably best not to take wine, he thought. To take something from
Shaw’s collection would be tasteless, but to take something else
might make Haydn wonder why he hadn’t. And not flowers. She’d had
too many of those already on a day like this. No, he knew what
would be perfect, prepared it, and put it in his pocket.

Despite a
series of road widening and bridge expanding schemes in recent
years that had threatened on occasion to bring Oxford to a total
halt, the Botley Road remained a miserable bottleneck. Tommy looked
wistfully down the Ferry Hinksey Road, at the end of which was the
short cycle track to North Hinksey, and prepared himself for
another mile in the traffic before the road almost doubled back on
itself. He opened the windows to relieve the heat, letting in the
stagnant particulate smog that hangs over Oxford in the high
pressure in its place. The heavy guitars and throaty cries of
Rammstein pounded his ears, flooding his senses with enough
stimulation to keep his mind from asking too many
questions.

Eventually he
pulled up outside Haydn’s house, noting the two cars parked
outside. He couldn’t imagine that the black Lexus would be hers.
No, it was much more likely that she would drive the neat crimson
Clio next to it; and somehow he didn’t see Becky in a corporate
hack’s car. Who could be visiting? Knightley? He found it hard to
imagine that Knightley ever stopped drinking long enough to drive.
Male company? It occurred to Tommy that the possibility hadn’t
occurred to him.

Becky opened
the door.

“
Hey,
Tommy.”

“
Good
evening,” he replied. “Your mother?”

“
In the
kitchen.”

The soft
leather soles of Tommy’s shoes whispered on the maple as he
followed the corridor to the kitchen. He took in every inch of
elegant minimalism as he went. “You have beautiful home, Dr Shaw,”
he said as he arrived in the doorway.

Haydn walked
over to Tommy and ever so slightly raised one hand, which he took
and kissed in one motion. Her grey dress slid down her like water
and lapped at her feet just above the floor. It was a perfect
complement to his shirt, the tiny black appliqué lotus blossoms
catching the light in just the same way as his jacket. Tommy was
pleased with his choice of wardrobe. “You appreciate design
professionally, I believe?” she said.

“
Yes.” Tommy
fetched the olive wood box from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Wine and flowers seemed less appropriate,” he said. His pupils
pulsed once as he heard her gasp when she opened it. “From
Ghana.”

Haydn lowered
her head over the box and breathed in the scent of the sea that
rose from the rough, dull nugget of ambergris. “Exquisite.” She
placed the box in a drawer. “Please come and meet our guests.”
Tommy registered the plural. Clearly it wasn’t – or at least not
just – a boyfriend. He could see she’d noticed his reaction. “You
may have met earlier today,” she continued. “I can’t be sure.” She
led him back through to the reception room.

“
Tommy, this
is Hedley Sansom, and his wife, Clarissa. Hedley, Clarissa, this is
Tommy West, my late husband’s star student.”

Tommy was sure
he hadn’t shown his surprise at seeing the Warden of St Saviour’s
sipping vermouth in Haydn Shaw’s front room. “Mrs Sansom, Reverend
Sansom.”

Tommy knew
Hedley Sansom from his student days. Sansom had been another of
Charles Shaw’s peers, another of the bright young things of
theology. He had lacked the precocity of Shaw and Ellison in his
early career, spending several years after his ordination as a
college chaplain before taking up a University Lecturership. His
field was the philosophy of religion, a subject that fell
tantalisingly between disciplines and was often impossible to
classify.

Tommy had
learned from a quick scan of the college website that he had been
different from them in other ways. He hadn’t stayed in Oxford but
had followed a classical career arc, going first to Tübingen in
Germany as a junior professor, then to Trinity College, Dublin as a
head of Faculty, and finally to Princeton, returning to Oxford not
as a professor but as a head of college. He seemed to have the most
important reputation of all in academia, that of someone who
brought funding with him wherever he went.

From what
Tommy remembered he found it hard to imagine Sansom spending his
life in the role of academic figurehead rather than scholar. Yes,
Sansom had been good with people, but it’s one thing to be good at
something, another to love it, to set your heart on it and follow a
career that will see you doing it all your life. After all, just
look at him. He was good at interior design.

“
Tommy, it’s
wonderful to see you after all these years.”

Tommy couldn’t
detect any note of sympathy in Sansom’s voice, or gloating, the
usual reactions from people who had known him when he had the world
in front of him, and who had witnessed the sudden demolition of his
dreams. “How is life in the Warden’s Lodge?” Tommy asked. “I can’t
imagine that speeches to the great and the good and chapel sermons
have quite the appeal to you as lectures in the Examination
Schools.” Sansom’s lectures had been one of the highlights of
Tommy’s undergraduate days. He’d had the knack of bringing one of
the driest subjects on the curriculum to life with elegant wit and
pertinent anecdotes.

“
It’s the
price we pay for advancement, Tommy.”

“
Then I am
glad that I have never advanced.” They smiled together, and Tommy
sensed they understood each other on a deeper level than either
would care to let on.

“
No? I always
imagined you would have been a professor by now.”

“
Interior
designer,” Tommy corrected. Sansom didn’t flinch. Maybe he was one
of the few people from Tommy’s academic past who weren’t aware of
his breakdown. Or maybe he was still being the consummate diplomat.
Either way Tommy was glad neither to have the pretence of pity nor
to be in imminent danger of having to rehearse the whole story
again.

“
Then you’ll
be one of the few people in this city of philistines who
appreciates the marvellous things Haydn has done with this
place.”

Said with the
tempo of a true politician, Tommy thought. “Absolutely.” He turned
to the Warden’s wife, standing awkwardly behind him with her drink.
“How does life at the House suit you, Mrs Sansom?”

“
Very well,”
Clarissa said. Tommy could see in her brown, slightly heavy eyes
that she both absolutely meant and absolutely did not mean it with
equal sincerity. She wore the marks of a conscious choice, once
made and never reneged on. They were the marks that he had seen on
Charteris’ rounded face three days earlier.

“
Please excuse
me,” said Tommy. “Let me see if I can help in the
kitchen.”

Haydn was busy
preparing food, a piece of bright red meat with a feather comb of
fat running all the way through. It looked like hand-marbled end
papers he had seen being made in Florence. “Wagyu beef. I’m
intrigued to know what you’re going to do with it.”

“
What would
you do with it, Tommy?” said Haydn, without looking up.

“
Absolutely
nothing,” Tommy answered, taking in the pattern of the meat as
though it were a painting. What gave wagyu beef its unique
appearance was the constant massaging of the cattle, working the
muscles and the fat through the skin, making every mouthful equally
moist and tender. This and a diet of the finest grains and beer
could raise the price to well over £100 per kilo.

“
And that is
what I intend to do,” she said. “You know the Warden, Tommy? I
suppose he was at Oxford when you were a student. Now he’s
leaving.”

“
Yes, he
lectured philosophy of religion. I remember him well. He’s very
young to be retiring. As I recall most Wardens stay until they
begin to disintegrate. Can I help in any way?”

“
Hedley isn’t
like any Warden I can remember. He doesn’t let the cobwebs form or
the woodworm take hold,” Haydn said, slicing the meat finely with
the flat side of a sushi knife. “I don’t think he’s retiring as
such. I imagine he plans to look for a Chancellorship somewhere
They hate him for it, of course, everyone else in College. Most of
all the older ones. The ones who could never even aspire to being
Warden. They hate he fell into the post as easily as putting on a
comfortable suit, and that he’s leaving it s readily as changing
for dinner. And yes, you could begin to heat the miso soup lightly.
Thank you.”

“
And is
Clarissa happy to keep moving?”

“
You’re very
good at reading people, aren’t you, Tommy?” she said, clearly
realising he’d picked up on Mrs Sansom’s melancholy.

Not you,
though
, he thought.
Or your daughter
.

“
Clarissa is,
as you may know, the second Mrs Sansom, “she continued. “She and
Hedley both know, although I doubt either has ever said it, that he
only ever loved the first, but Valerie died. Hedley was ambitious,
and a wife is an essential accessory in the circles in which he
moves. There is no requirement for love, and certainly no
expectation of fidelity, although I somehow suspect that Hedley has
never strayed.”

Haydn had
stopped slicing beef and was rough chopping caper berries. Her
hands had lost their absolute steadiness. It clearly wasn’t the
moment to push the matter. Tommy took the meat board and sushi
knife and, laying the flat side flush to the flesh, began to
slice.

Dinner was a
delight, a single, simple course of beef, half the slices served
raw, the other half flashed on a skillet, served with two finger
bowls at the side of each plate, one with an olive oil and caper
dressing, the other with watercress leaves and mustard seeds
floating in miso soup. But, mindful of Becky’s watchful ear, Tommy
had no more seams of information to mine. Nonetheless there germs
of ideas in his head. Haydn Shaw’s hands shaking; Hedley Sansom
leaving Oxford; one wife dead and in the ground, another just dead
inside. Seeds of ideas floating in his mind like mustard seeds
glistening in the corn flour gloss of miso soup. Floating in a
finger bowl inviting him to taste.

MARCH
1992

Professor Shaw
handed the sheets of paper back to him without a word. Tommy had
asked him to supervise his doctoral thesis, for which he had sent a
preliminary outline the week before.

“
Thank you,”
said Tommy.

“
The Lips that
Never Kiss
. An interesting title,” said
the Professor, as though the title of Tommy’s thesis were of more
interest than the content.