The Glendower Legacy (6 page)

“And with the American revolutionary war we’re back to illusion and reality. You’ve got to get yourselves into
their
eighteenth-century shoes, see what they saw, see how much they knew and how much they were missing of what went on around them, what they
thought
was real … The easy labels we pin on men who turn the course of history are seldom very accurate, are more often merely convenient.”

He let the flow of his ideas carry him along, ideas he’d carefully worked up over the years, and it was largely automatic. At least it was today. He spoke of great men and cads and why they were what they were and he watched the woman in the back row. Familiar … someone he knew? No, not that … but familiar … when he looked at her she was always watching him closely, but then why not, he was the lecturer.

He strode across to the radiator and kicked it, having learned several weeks before that no rational attempts to control its output had the slightest effect. He put his hands in the pockets of the tweed coat, ran his fingers through the lint, loose shreds of tobacco, movie ticket stubs, and waited. He always liked to give them a chance to get the point of things clear in their minds before he began to get specific. Damn, she was still staring at him. Why did he feel that her name was only just out of reach?

“Okay, then,” he said. “We now come to the hub around which this course really turns, the American Revolution. And before we get into the nuts and bolts of it, let me make a point or two about the meaning of two more important words, revolution and treason—because, as commonly used, they are not in fact what they seem.

“For instance, a survey of Americans not long ago indicated that they have almost no valid information relevant to either geography or history, although they
think
they do …” Chandler slipped his spectacles off the hooked nose and thrust them at the point he was making. “And they have a greater fund of misinformation about the American Revolution than about any other period of our history … presumably, you are all better informed than the populace at large. But, let me get at a couple of basic points …

“First, the state of mind that produced the American Revolution—it is misunderstood rather widely. In the summer of 1773 Ben Franklin wrote a letter to John Winthrop here at Harvard, and I quote—” Chandler flipped open his Harvard three-ring notebook but hardly needed to look at it.

“‘As between friends every affront is not worth a duel, between nations every injury not worth a war, so between governed and the government every mistake in government, every encroachment on rights, is not worth a rebellion.’”

Chandler leaned on the lectern, his hands clasped before him, glasses dangling, letting the words sink in: “And so it went, Franklin and Jefferson and John Adams, none of them wanted a
war
… or independence. In seventy-five Adams said the idea of independence was universally disavowed on our side of the water …” He dogged the point, pressed the idea that both the American Whigs and the Tories looked upon themselves as profoundly loyal to the crown. And when it came to war, he told them, it was a war by Whigs who sought to uphold their rights
as Englishmen.

“These are crucial points to keep in mind when applying yourself to the study of the American Revolution … Revolution is a word with many meanings …”

He put his glasses back on and thrust his hand back into his pockets, straining the buttons on his jacket. He looked at the blackboard.

“The other word … treason. Now, Out of this new angle on revolution, it stands to reason that we’re going to get a new look at treason. And, incidentally, treason is an almost entirely subjective word—one man’s traitor is almost always another man’s hero. It’s an untrustworthy word, treason, yet the history of the American Revolution is riddled with … one righteous accusation of treason after another. But what is the illusion and what is the reality?

“Think—it started as anything but a revolution. Hell, no sane man could conceive of a war against the immeasurable might of England! These men thought of themselves as Englishmen, none more English than themselves—loyal subjects and proud to be. Yet events kept on conspiring as events will, pushing these loyal subjects toward a war … a war they didn’t want. But even as the spirit of independence was growing, even after July 4, 1776, the populace was far from unanimous in support of this declaration … in every corner of the country, in every city, there were thousands, tens of thousands who utterly opposed this precipitate act of insurrection—a suicidal rush to war.

“But get the point—they all saw themselves as patriots …

“And as the revolution gathered steam, as war engulfed them all, the differences and similarities grew in intensity. Political controversy had become a shooting war. Political views were reduced to only two, the population was polarized … You were either a patriot or a loyalist. The patriots insisted you were either willing to fight for the rights and liberties of Americans or you weren’t. And the loyalists said that was all irrelevant crap—the fact was, you were either for or against the lawful government.

“Naturally there were a great many intelligent, circumspect men who looked this way and that, unable to accept this harsh separation, this black-and-white view … and these men might be called, ah, realists. They were simply not convinced of the absolute tightness of one view or the other, they could not irrevocably join one side or the other … or, finding themselves serving one side or the other, they could not turn off their brains, they could not keep from seeing the other side’s point of view …

“The fact was, many great and powerful men were capable of shifting loyalties. Did that make them traitors?

“Shifting loyalties. Keep that in mind. You may be quite amazed at some of the fellows who found themselves prey to shifting loyalties … Quite amazed.” He sighed, picked up the Rolex and snapped it back on his wrist. “You’ve got the reading list. Keep at it.” He smiled, picked up his scarf. “That’s it for today.”

The woman with the huge eyes and the rakish cheekbones approached at a determined clip while he was struggling into his scruffy Burberry with the frayed cuffs, floppy plaid lining, and the odd spots that clustered to him, it seemed, wherever he went. He watched her coming toward him, trying to place the face with a name: Audrey Hepburn was as close as he could come and unless his life had taken a sudden, dramatic turn for the better, it wasn’t going to turn out to be Audrey Hepburn. She spoke his name, held out her hand, which he shook awkwardly, entangled in the voluminous coat.

“I’m Polly Bishop. Channel Three News—”

“Of course,” he said, smiting his forehead, “I’ve seen you a thousand times but I—”

“That’s television, we become as familiar as the furniture …” She smiled winsomely: “And just as forgettable.”

“Like history professors, I suspect.” He began strangling himself with the scarf, wondering why he had such difficulty with apparently simple tasks.

“Here, you’re caught in the little flap,” she said, pulling the scarf loose. “Do you always have this problem?” She was smiling broadly, the corners of her wide mouth curling up.

“Not always, thank God, just usually. What exactly can I do for you, Miss Bishop?”

“You were pretty rough on us television people, Professor,” she said, ignoring his question. “Here, don’t forget your umbrella …”

“No rougher than you deserve, surely. Television has a good deal to answer for, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, it’s certainly no worse than a draw, the good and the bad.” She cocked her head, still smiling, appraising his ensemble. “Maybe we’ve even done a little better than that—”

He wasn’t overjoyed by the smile, the air of amused tolerance. “Look, you justify your existence any way you like—”

“Oho, it’s my whole existence that’s in question now … oh, dear.”

“Look, Miss Bishop, I don’t know what brings you here but surely it isn’t to badger me about my credentials as television critic … As I can tell from the look on your face, you’ve enjoyed watching me fight it out with my coat and scarf. So why don’t we get to the point or just leave it at that.” He was stuffing papers and books into his briefcase. He picked up his
Boston Globe
and she reached out, tapped it with a neatly manicured nail:

“That’s why I’m here.” Her smile was gone. “I’m sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean to get off to such a lousy start …”

“Bill Davis’s murder,” he said softly. The boyish, long-haired face, a typical class portrait, looked up blankly from the sheet of newsprint. His hand trembled for a moment; then he stuffed it into the bulging briefcase. “Senseless, awful thing … You just never know—” He closed the briefcase and looked down at the woman.

“I’m covering the murder … it’s a big story, ‘The Harvard Murder.’ That’s why I’m here.” She looked around the room, back to him, shrugged sheepishly. “You happened to be lecturing. I stayed.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, shook his head. “Why me? I hardly knew him—”

“You were his adviser, Professor. And you say you hardly knew him?”

“He got switched over to me this semester. We’d only met once or twice, he seemed like an independent kid, working on some things that weren’t really ready for me to see—his previous adviser had gotten Bill’s motor started and there wasn’t much for me to do yet …” He shook his head again, as if it were the only gesture left. How many ways could you exhibit futility and sorrow? “I don’t know anything about … this … what happened to Bill.”

“Well, Professor, you seem to be all we’ve got, the only lead. The police have already spoken with you and they won’t say a word … that makes you interesting to us, Professor. You seem to be the only person at Harvard they have talked to, the only link to Harvard and, quite frankly, it’s Harvard that makes this murder of more than passing interest. You understand? I don’t mean to sound callous—”

“I’m disgusted, Miss Bishop, by that kind of sleazy sensationalism. The invasion of my privacy is bad enough but the connection to Harvard making the kid’s life of more than passing—”

“Not his life. It’s his death we’re discussing and Boston is full of bodies, every day.” She was about to flare up, her face coloring.

“The Harvard murder, good God!” He tried to push past her but she wouldn’t move. The heat in the room was awful. He was soaking his shirt beneath all the layers of clothing.

Polly Bishop fixed him with a stern eye.

“Your name was found on a piece of notepaper in his pocket, along with your office hours … We know the secretary saw him leaving your office the day he was killed, only a few hours before he was killed—”

“Do you think I did it? Do you want me to account for my time? Well, I was at the University Theatre in Harvard Square watching a revival of
Charade
with Cary Grant and … Audrey Hepburn.” He cleared his throat self-consciously; “No, I wasn’t in the company of Cary and Audrey, they were in the movie. Yes, I have a witness called Brennan … He didn’t kill Bill Davis either. And now, Miss Bishop, I’ve had about enough of this interrogation—”

“Why did Bill Davis come to see you that last day, Professor?”

“Listen,” he said angrily, “what is it with you? You know why my name and hours were on his person—I was his adviser. Yes, he came to see me. No, I didn’t see him. He was late! We missed each other!” He felt the muscle flickering along his jaw. Goddamnit, woman …”

“Just not his lucky day, is that it?”

“That’s funny,” he said sourly. “Very funny.”

“Why was he coming to see you? Why did he stop and tell the secretary to have you call him? What was so important?”

Chandler threw up his hands and looked around the room: “Listen to her! Just listen to her! Miss Bishop, I don’t know what he wanted with me. I didn’t see him—can you grasp that?”

“I think there’s something you know and aren’t telling!” She bobbed her head decisively. “You’re just the type—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He stormed past her and charged through the doorway. Why did God make such an attractive woman so bloody irritating? Why? Chauvinism lives …

She followed him, her boots pounding along behind him. She drew near and he got a whiff of her perfume. Gardenias or something. There were dainty little crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, little ridges of determination around the mouth. Thirty-five? Why the hell did he care?

“You may not
know
that you know,” she said, vaguely conciliatory. “But I’ll bet there’s something, some little thing …”

“You, lady, are pissing in the wind.”

“Smooth,” she said, “very smooth. You Harvard men …”

He went through the outside door onto the entry stairway and, as if by a bolt of lightning, he was momentarily blinded. Someone had snapped on a high intensity, handheld lamp, and Chandler realized too late that he’d been had. There was a cameraman, a light man, a guy holding a microphone and some other kind of apparatus. There was a big green numeral three inside a chocolate-brown rectangle painted on each piece of equipment. Someone was holding an umbrella over the camera and the light. Chandler turned, astonished, to Polly Bishop and dropped his umbrella which clattered down the steps. “Talk about lucky days,” he muttered.

She grabbed the microphone, struck a pose, took a signal and began talking. Chandler looked into the camera, began edging away, felt a tug on his sleeve and realized she had neatly hooked her arm through his: he was trapped and, short of striking this extraordinary woman a stunning blow, he was about to be interviewed on television. He heard her talking as the rain dripped down from the gray, spongy overcast.

“We’re in venerable old Harvard Yard, within the sound of bustling Harvard Square … and also within the spreading shadows of the violent death of young Bill Davis, the Harvard student brutally gunned down less than forty-eight hours ago on the lawn of his parents’ home in suburban Brookline. We’re speaking with Bill Davis’s adviser, Harvard’s well-known historian and author, Professor Colin Chandler—” She turned to meet his eyes, her face bright and serious, the earnest newshound whose good looks he’d admired so often on the evening news. Sharp features, soft brown eyes, a few flecks of gray artfully arranged in the thick chestnut hair swept back covering her ears. He almost smiled, then he heard the question. He wished her an evening with snakes in her boots.