The Company of Fellows (21 page)

“
You too, and
it was lovely to meet Mrs Sansom.”

“
Speaking of
which,” said Sansom. “You must come to lunch if you’re not doing
anything.”

“
I’d love to.
Oh, goodbye, Professor Ellison,” Tommy said to Ellison’s fast
turning shoulder. “I’ll call round tomorrow afternoon.”

“
Mm. Tommy,
Hedley. Good afternoon.”

“
Super”, said
Sansom. “I’d better show my face at coffee first. That’s something
I won’t miss.” He took off his Canon’s robes and folded them over
his arm. Tommy thought he looked like an undergraduate on the way
to formal dinner. There was something young in the way he walked
that all the years of political hacking hadn’t taken
away.

“
I enjoyed the
sermon,” said Tommy. It was true. He enjoyed the Warden’s easy
style, the way he made points seems throwaway that were actually in
absolute focus. And of course the references to the fulfilment of
childhood potential, and to the sadness of things coming to their
end had more than piques his interest. Sansom had lost none of his
sharpness, and Tommy felt sure that the Warden hadn’t just been
talking about his own impending retirement. How much he actually
knew about Professor Shaw’s death, and how much he was simply
making his own contribution to the game that Barnard Ellison and
probably others were already playing remained to be
seen.

“
Thank
you.”

“
I had no idea
that iconography interested you so much,” Tommy slipped in,
wondering if Sansom would let on to anything.

“
There is
something fascinating about art of any kind that is wholly
symbolic,” said Sansom. “For a philosopher of religion, Orthodox
iconography is rather like the mother lode.”

The expression
made Tommy smile. He had a feeling the word mother was entirely
deliberate. He had an equally strong feeling that Sansom wasn’t
about to reveal anything more. “I’m sure you will miss preaching in
the Chapel.”

“
Yes, I
suppose I will. I guess I’ll get more than my share of keynote
speeches and after-dinner slots, though. Will you come for
coffee?”

After service
coffee was a timeless tradition at the Chapel, yet more swilling of
fluids in the same stale groups. Recirculated farts, thought Tommy,
like air conditioning in steerage.

“
On second
thoughts,” said Sansom, as if reading his thoughts. Come and have
something drinkable with me.”

“
Very good
idea.” Tommy smiled.

The inside of
the Lodge surprised Tommy. For all the soulless and dark tradition,
the few personal touches the Sansoms had slipped in bore little
resemblance to the rather stage-managed personas he’d seen the
previous night. There was an early plastic Mies van der Rohe chair
in the drawing room; there were a couple of Pollock prints, and
even a framed reproduction of one of De Kooning’s pictures of
women. The more he looked the more he saw little details: coasters,
decanters, vases in bold colours and asymmetric shapes.

“
Greek coffee,
metrios,” said Sansom, bringing a little plastic tray into the
drawing room with three tiny high-sided cups that were filled with
a sweet-smelling brown goo that was almost solid.

“
Perfect,”
said Tommy.

“
Hello,
Tommy,” said Clarissa, coming to join them. “How lovely to see you
again so soon. Do have a langue de chat.” She offered him a plate
of small buttery biscuits.

It wasn’t how
Tommy had imagined social occasions with the Sansoms. It was almost
too well-oiled to be an act, slick to the point of being natural.
Behind the endlessly repeated routine he sensed that each had a
genuine ease in their role, and a genuine ease with each other’s
role. He found everything about being there, including the
magnificent roast capon with Chambolle-Musigny that was served for
lunch, pleasant and relaxed.

“
That was
quite exquisite, Clarissa.”

“
The secret’s
to use good meat,” Clarissa replied. “I always go to
Feller’s”

Tommy laughed.
“That’s something I once spent months trying to explain to
someone.”

“
You should
try demonstrating rather than explaining. Just cook the same meal
with ingredients from Sainsbury’s the next night.”

“
I did,” said
Tommy. “But it still didn’t work.”

“
Then I’m very
glad to see from your left hand that you didn’t marry her,” said
Clarissa. “And I’m even gladder if you divorced her for it.” They
all laughed.

“
Well,” said
Tommy. “It’s a long story, but I’m sure that culinary
incompatibility has at least a small part to play in
it.”

“
Don’t ever
underestimate its role, Tommy.”

Hedley Sansom
was smiling, almost repressing a smirk. “I should explain, Tommy.
Clarissa is a patissière by profession. She trained under Michel
Roux in the 70s.”

Tommy could
see Clarissa blush.

“
Wait till you
taste pudding,” said Sansom.

“
I’m truly
honoured.” Tommy said. Michel Roux, who had established Le
Gavroche, Britain’s first restaurant to receive three Michelin
stars, with his brother Albert, was one of the world’s masters of
all things sweet.

“
She still
works in the trade, freelance these days,” Hedley said. Tommy could
detect the pride in his voice. “She has done everywhere we’ve gone.
We met at a pastry shop in Vienna whilst I was at
Tübingen.”

“
A Viennese
whirlwind romance,” Clarissa added. Tommy got the impression it was
the same joke she used to hide her embarrassment every time Hedley
told the story.

After rose
water soufflé, Hedley took Tommy back to the drawing room, excusing
himself to Clarissa.

“
Tommy,” he
said, ushering his guest into the van der Rohe chair. “You remember
Dr Knightley, who was at the memorial on Friday?”

“
Yes, he was
rather the worse for wear if memory serves.”

“
Indeed. It
would be tragic if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not,” said
Sansom enigmatically. Tommy waited. “He called me up yesterday
afternoon.”

Tommy felt
like a naughty undergraduate again.

Summoned to
see the Warden after he split up with Emily. Pointed to a chair and
looked over with concern like a broken vase. Concern that gave way
to warnings. Certain levels of performance expected. Everyone has a
private life. Nothing wrong with that. Not in and of itself anyway.
But it mustn’t get in the way of study. Was that understood?
Good.

Tommy realised
that if he was going to stand a chance of earning Hedley’s trust it
was time to speak first. “I went to see him yesterday.”

“
I know. He
told me.” Sansom closed his eyes and drew in a breath of blue
mountain coffee before he took a mouthful. “He didn’t say why but I
can guess.”

“
I was
curious,” Tommy said.

“
I’ll bet you
were.” Sansom chuckled. “You’ll get into politics with answers like
that.” Tommy sensed concern but not disapprobation. “Tommy, you’re
clearly a friend to Becky and that’s good enough for me. I have a
feeling you’re trying to find out about her father for
her.”

This wasn’t
the time to lie. “Yes,” said Tommy. “She’s asked me to find out
about him. She knows what I find might not be good.”

“
Be careful
with her, Tommy. She’s been through a lot.” Tommy nodded. “But
thank you for being honest with me.” He couldn’t tell if Sansom
meant it, or if it was all jus part of the game. “Now let me tell
you something you don’t know yet. Stephen Knightley killed himself
last night. He waited till the cleaner came to his office. He
waited till she opened the door, put the gun to his head, and shot
himself.”

How was he
meant to react to that? Was Sansom accusing him of something? He
could feel the Warden’s eyes all over him. Had Knightley known
something? Had Tommy going to see him pushed him over the
edge?

“
He was a
tortured soul,” said Sansom, as if that were all the explanation
needed.

“
I could
tell.”

“
I know you
have a way with people,” the Warden continued. “Charles used to
tell people about it. But I’ve had to learn a little bit about
understanding the human mind as well; another price I’ve paid for
advancement.”

Tommy
listened. He thought he should feel patronised but he
didn’t.

“
Just because
someone is tortured, that doesn’t make them a good person,” Sansom
went on. “The most tragic characters in art are tortured not
because they’re mad, not because of the whim of the gods, but
because of the wrongs they’ve done. Knightley wasn’t a good man,
Tommy.”

“
He wasn’t a
bad man, either,” said Tommy. “He made a mistake. He’s blamed
himself ever since.”

“
I know you
believe that, Tommy, and I’m not surprised. I’m sure he believed it
himself for the last few years.

“
Was he drunk
that night?” asked Tommy, trying to figure out just what Sansom
meant.

“
No; at least,
he might have been, but that wasn’t the problem.”

“
What then?
Was he negligent? Did he fail to ask for help?”

“
Well, he
certainly didn’t ask for help.”

Tommy had had
enough. Why didn’t Sansom just spit it out if he had something to
say rather than keeping him dangling like this? “So he could have
saved her? He could have saved Carol and he didn’t.”

“
No, Tommy.
No. Stephen Knightley didn’t kill himself because he let Carol die.
He killed himself because he let her live.”

_____

31

“
Let her
live?” Tommy was talking almost to himself. What Hedley had said
made no sense, fitted nowhere in the frame of what Tommy
knew.

Hedley waited,
allowing him to gather himself back to some kind of
clarity.

“
Then what
happened to her?” Tommy asked, eventually.

“
That, I’m
afraid, I don’t know.” Sansom put his cup down on a bright orange
coaster and steepled his hands. “And I really don’t think I want
to. But it has something to do with Charles, and I am one hundred
percent certain that his poor wife and daughter know nothing about
it. Be very careful where you dig, Tommy. I realise that’s not
necessarily a promise you can make, so please, promise me instead
that you’ll be very careful what you tell them.”

“
How do you
know?” was all he could say.

“
I’d suspected
for a long time. Knightley told me last night before he blew his
brains out. I think he wanted absolution before he died. I didn’t
give him any. Now, will you make me that promise?”

“
Of
course.”

“
Good.” Sansom
smiled. “Let’s have some more coffee.”

Tommy sat
through one more cup of coffee and tried to keep his mind still,
but the caffeine was crawling inside him, teasing him with all the
possibilities this new information opened up. He needed to go; he
needed to be still at his desk with Shaw’s papers, to be somewhere
he could let the thoughts that were bubbling away form a scum on
the surface of his mind without worrying about the stinking flotsam
they would bring floating with them.

“
You should
go, Tommy,” Sansom said, and Tommy wondered if the Warden had read
his mind. “You need to think, and then you need to go and see the
Shaws.”

“
Thank you.”
Tommy stood, gave his thanks to Clarissa on the way out, and left
St Saviour’s through Penhaligon Gate, heading back via the side
streets off Ogee Square, just to make sure he didn’t run into Emily
if she had hung around after church.

Tommy changed
into his sweats and spent an hour in the gym pounding out bench
presses and squats until he could barely stand. Then he lay in the
bath, a thick film of lavender oil clinging hotly to his skin,
forcing its way into the tightened, twisted fibres of his body. It
made no headway into the sinews of his mind. He tried to hear
Charles Shaw’s voice reading to him from the letter that had
started everything, but the words and sounds were unfamiliar. There
were no patterns discernable in his speech. All he could hear was
the voice of a stranger.

He tried to
work out what it was that disgusted him most. When he did, he was
repulsed. What he actually hated about the situation above all else
was the fact that he had been taken by surprise; not the actual
content of what he had learned. He hadn’t seen this coming at all,
and he knew that he should have done. Damn it, why did he take
things on trust? All the pointers were there and he had ignored
them.
Jacob I loved, but Esau I
hated.
Just how much hate had there
been?
Like a torture instrument, but in
miniature.
Tommy got out of the bath. It
wasn’t washing that would stop him feeling dirty. It was finding
out the truth.

Why had he
ignored the clues? Because he didn’t want to think in that way
about Shaw? He didn’t know for certain that the Professor had known
anything about what happened the night the twins were born. He only
had Sansom’s word for it, and that was the problem, wasn’t it,
taking other people’s words for things? What had happened to Tommy
the researcher? Tommy West the academic boy wonder who never
accepted anything that couldn’t be pushed to the limits of logic?
That Tommy was buried in a sea of sample books, that’s
what.