“It wasn’t me in his rooms.”

  “You might consider your surroundings before making such a statement.” His hand swept toward the altar and the huge bronze cross there.

  “I stole the key from the porter’s lodge,” I confessed.

  “Fortunately, I’m in the salvation business. You’ve come to the right place.”

  “He has disappeared.”

  “Yes. Aiden and I, well, we talk often, you see. Aiden could use a little salvation.”

  “His drinking?”

  “Then you’ve heard.”

  “Port, isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “Maybe you do not require my help.”

  “We all require help,” I suggested.

  “It’s just that there is something going on here at Wadham that, well, who is to say? If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t… But you see, I don’t know, do I? And that makes it impossible to say.”

  “And Aiden Sinclair is involved?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “By nature of my role here, I am a neutral party, Mr. Klick—”

  “Chris,” I corrected, “or Klick. But not Mr. Klick. He was my father.”

  “I saw you in the cloisters speaking with Tim Binyon. You can trust Tim.”

  “Is there someone I can’t trust? Someone I should know about?”

  “Be thankful it was me who saw those curtains move. You would be asked to leave for what you did tonight. The Warden would not tolerate such behavior from a Fellow. Or from a student, for that matter.”

  “I am grateful,” I said. “I want to find Sinclair. I’m thinking about writing my mystery around his disappearance. It would make for a good one, don’t you think?”

  “Depends how it turns out,” he cautioned, leading me back in silence toward the heavy door and the chill night darkness that lay beyond.

  Chapter 16

  My British Telecom phone purred from across the room where I was huddled in front of my glowing electric fire. With a coffee mug a quarter full of Drambuie, I was trying to warm myself and collect my thoughts following my visit to Sinclair’s rooms and the chaplain’s.

  On the other end of the phone call, Lyel said calmly, “He’s gone.”

  Lyel had taken a field trip to the Devon address I had seen on the envelope in the Warden’s study. “Gone?”

  “He was here, up until this morning. It’s a cottage on the Devon coast. Lovely place.”

  “Spare me the real estate description. Gone where?”

  “No forwarding address.”

  “Tuttle warned him,” I said. “Tuttle knew that I had seen the envelope.”

  “Same thought crossed my mind.”

  “But at least he’s all right,” I tested.

  “We don’t know that,” Lyel corrected. “He was all right, up until this morning. That’s as much as we can assume.”

  “I see what you mean. And are we sure it was even him to begin with?”

  “Trash can contained three empty bottles of vintage port 1947.”

  I whistled. “That’s fairly convincing.” I somehow couldn’t connect Lyel with rummaging through trash, but I didn’t want to discourage his enthusiasm so I let it be.

  “I haven’t had a chance to get a look inside his room, and I haven’t found out who owns the building. After this long a trip, I’d like to come away with something.”

  “You searched his trash,” I reminded. Lyel had a way of challenging me; he made me work for evidence, teasing with bits and pieces, but forcing me to see the connection before he would volunteer the whole. Knowing Lyel, knowing that tone of voice of his, I suspected the empty bottles were not all he had found in Sinclair’s trash.

  “Very good. I did indeed.”

  “I hope you weren’t observed.”

  He said, “Sinclair is no criminal—correction!—if he is a criminal, he’s new to it. He took absolutely no precautions with his trash. None whatsoever. He’s been eating poorly, drinking well and, by all appearances, has only had one letter from Sir Frans.”

  “You have a letter?”

  “I’m missing the second page, and therefore the signature. We don’t know for certain, although I suppose we could do an informal handwriting comparison. But, by the content, I’m pretty sure it was from Sir Frans, yes.”

  “What did it say, Lyel? What did it say?”

  He read to me,

  “RE: Your recent discovery.

  Your find here may—and I can’t make out the words—but, as we discussed, it comes at a most inopportune time. I thank you for your cooperation in this matter, and trust you are enjoying your current research. Please know that—

  and it stops there,” Lyel finished.

  “Your find,” I quoted, emphasizing the latter.

  “Inopportune time,” he quoted back.

  “They’re hiding him. Someone is hiding him for some reason.”

  “And they’re keeping him drunk—very drunk, by the look of it. Expensive drunk, which must also be for a very good reason.”

  “What could it be?”

  “That’s the problem,” Lyel pointed out. “It could be anything.”

  “Something in his field? Herbs? Ink?”

  “I wish we had that second page of the note,” Lyel said.

  “I paid a visit to his quarters,” I informed him.

  “Did you?” he asked.

  “I have some names to run by you… hold on a minute.” I had written down the names that I had found scribbled onto a Post-It note. I read them back to Lyel: Randall Bradshaw, Lester Tilbert, Henry Hagg.

  “I know Hagg! He’s a musicologist. I read for him twenty years ago,” Lyel said, referring to the Oxford tutorial system I had yet to understand.

  “What about Lester Tilbert?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Why write down the names?”

  “Nothing mysterious about one don having written down the phone numbers of other dons.”

  “The chaplain says there’s something mysterious going on. He wouldn’t elaborate.”

  “What did he say exactly?” Lyel asked. He didn’t believe me capable of translating from the British.

  “He’s not right about any of this Sinclair business. He’s overly cautious about saying anything.”

  “Scared?”

  “Could be. Could be he knows more. That was the feeling I got.”

  “But trustworthy?”

  “He’s the chaplain, for Christ’s sake!”

  “No pun intended. The question still stands,” Lyel said.

  “Yes, trustworthy. Helpful, I think. He’ll help if we need him.”

  Lyel instructed, “We need to know if Sinclair struck up these friendships recently.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Binyon would know.”

  I told him about my discovery of the muddy clothes. I finished by warning him, “If Allison Star is coming to the university, as Binyon said, then as we agreed, Aiden Sinclair takes a backseat after that. Do you want to brief Tim Binyon now, or would you like me to wait for your return?”

  “Who said I’m returning?”

  “After you get a look inside his room,” I corrected myself.

  “I’m going to find him, Klick, whether you help me or not.” I knew that Lyel tone.

  “I didn’t say I’m quitting. I said it would take the backseat.”

  “Same thing. It’s okay.”

  “Lyel, it’s not the same thing.”

  “We’re closer than we were to finding him.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And Sinclair only has a one day jump on me.”

  Lyel had helped me out on any number of occasions—sometimes getting me out of some very tight jams. But he was not meant for the kind of work he was now suggesting he undertake. I said, “Something tells me you should have been the Raymond Chandler Fellow. This end of things is much more suited to you.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean.”

  “I can do this, Klick. This is nowhere near as difficult as you make it out to be.”

  “But it’s not the safest undertaking. We’ve talked about that.”

  “You’re worried for me. I’m touched.”

  “You’re touched alright.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” I could hear him laughing—laughing at his own cleverness—as he hung up. But he was right, I was worried. All because I knew one thing Lyel didn’t: amateurs were the most dangerous sleuths of all.

  Chapter 17

  The following evening, dressed in sports jacket, tie, and gray flannel trousers, I entered the Senior Common Room. It sported a low ceiling and red leather furniture, a circular antique card table, leather couches and padded window seats. In the far corner, a small wedge-shaped cabinet served as the bar. Tim Binyon caught me by the elbow and offered to buy me a cocktail. It was a warm gin and tonic—the Brits didn’t believe in ice.

  “How’s your research coming along?” he inquired. It was a decent sized room, but this time of evening, as the Fellows gathered for High Table, it offered no privacy.

  “Just fine, thank you. Making some wonderful headway.”

  “Anything that I can help with?”

  “There may be. I’ll certainly think about it.” I did think about it, and I immediately suggested, “Perhaps you could make introductions for me. I would appreciate meeting messieurs Bradshaw, Tilbert and/or Hagg.” I didn’t know Tim Binyon well, but I knew a strange look when I saw one. “Those names mean something to you?” I asked softly.

  He replied in an equally hushed voice, “In any contained social structure the alliances and friendships are constantly shifting, constantly changing. It is human nature. Hmm? However the three men you just mentioned are most unusual bedfellows—three entirely different people: different tastes, different disciplines entirely. And yet those three men, the very same three you just mentioned, have recently been sharing time together—extraordinarily often, now that you mention it. At functions like these. High Table. The garden or cloisters. A most unusual alliance.”

  “And Sinclair?”

  “Yes, Aiden too. You’re right!” he crowed, draining his gin and edging away from me to pour us both another. As he filled mine—and he filled it—he said, “Sinclair too!” We stood off to one side of the room. Tim Binyon studied the faces. “Well,” he said, “it looks as though I shall be sitting at the head of the table tonight.” As sub-Warden, he explained, he presided over High Table unless the Warden showed, which wasn’t often. “I’ll ask you to sit to my left, Chris, unless there is a female guest, in which case I’ll put you to my right. That’s Randall, by the coffee.” He nodded toward an exceptionally thin man with bad teeth, a full beard, and narrow-set eyes. Randall Bradshaw reminded me of a scarecrow. “I’ll suggest to Randall that he join us. I’ll place him next to you, no matter.” He glanced at his watch. “Is that alright with you?” he inquired.

  I was a little overwhelmed by the formality and by the idea of one man controlling the seating of his peers so carefully. Clearly the implication was that if he told Bradshaw to sit next to me then that was where Bradshaw would sit. He must have seen the disbelief in my eyes.

  The sub-Warden reminded, “This is England, Chris. I imagine it takes some getting used to.”

  “Yes,” I answered. And then some, I was thinking. We clinked our glasses together in toast, and killed the remainder of the gin.

  I was half in the bag before I ever got to dinner.

  Chapter 18

  Before we left the Senior Common Room, all the Fellows, except me, had donned their black robes as required of them for this ritual. The robes had subtle differences. One or two had a fringe work that looked like some kind of lace running up the borders and on the cuffs of the three-quarter length sleeves. Others had worn elbows or frayed seams, the dons proud of their tattered state and wearing them like a badge of honor. There was no particular order to who went first, but there we were crossing the main courtyard toward the majestic entry to the dining hall, surrounded by the ancient yellowed stone quarried five hundred years earlier, the wind spinning the ragged hems of the gowns as clusters of Fellows, in twos and threes, formed a loose procession headed for dinner. Through the soles of my feet I could sense the Augustinian friars whose grounds these once were. I could taste the history here as certainly as I could breathe the chill autumn air.

  The Fellows, who long since had come to take this as nothing more than a stroll to dinner, seemed to miss the elegance, the sense of drama that welled up in my chest. Perhaps it was the gin, perhaps that brutal English wind that stung my eyes—but I felt a certain reverence for a ceremony that had been practiced for centuries. I stood in the shadow of history, an outsider allowed not only to glimpse, but to participate in a ritual that held all of the wonder and formalities of England, the British Empire, Oxford University and her world-famous dons. I was a visiting Fellow. Me! This hit me hard as we formed single file and strolled down the aisle between the impossibly long, electric-candle-lit tables where the undergraduates went after their food like pigs at the trough, but who, on seeing me—for clearly I stood out—would raise their eyes and stare, their heads turning as they tracked me. Who is this new one to High Table? their questioning eyes said. A few of the young women smiled warmly at me and I felt myself stir. No way! I cautioned myself.

  The dining hall seemed to stretch forever. Huge, life-sized oil portraits looked down on us. With its uniquely vaulted roof, this room felt more like a cathedral. The lot of us stopped and chatted by a large stone fireplace where a coal fire burned brightly. I saw Tim Binyon shaking hands with guests and composing the seating arrangement closest to him. When he felt confident we were all in attendance, he took a single step up to the small platform from which the High Table looked out onto this room. The signal. We all followed—those of us with “assigned” seating and those of us without. The chairs were tall ladder structures that seemed as old as the wood overhead. There was more silverware on three sides of my plate than I had ever encountered. Exactly how was I going to negotiate that? I wondered. Enough forks, knives, and spoons for a family of five. And all for me! There were two wine glasses, a water glass, and a bread plate—or was it for salad? There was a gigantic silver bowl of steaming bread. There was a head waiter, a wine steward—whose sole job was to keep our glasses topped—and four servers, two of whom I recognized from lunch. Another, Margaret, was responsible for cleaning my rooms. When the women had been seated, I sat down and tried to look comfortable. It wasn’t easy.

  Tim Binyon said, “Chris Klick, may I present Randall Bradshaw.”

  The man to my right—for indeed, Tim had placed me to his right so that I had a full view of the enormous room—offered me his hand and we shook. He felt like a scarecrow as well. The bones in his hand felt like the spines of a garden rake. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “And you,” I answered, regaining my strength.

  I had work to do.

  Chapter 19

  The first course, a fish course, was cold salmon with hollandaise on butternut lettuce. It was served with a fruity white wine slightly above room temperature. That, dessert and coffee, and I would have been fully satisfied.

  Randall Bradshaw smacked his food and slurped his wine. The table was abuzz with the hum of congenial conversation punctuated only by the wine steward’s gentle intrusion as he checked to make sure another pour was desired. You were charged for your wine consumption by the glass. Presumably the wine steward kept score, although by the look of him he practiced his trade himself. I doubted whether, in that state, he could count to ten, much less keep straight the drinking habits of thirty Fellows and their guests. A white-gloved hand, a bottle extending from it like a prosthesis, would slip in alongside me and miraculously fill my glass, retreating as silently as a snake, a voice hissing only the single interrogative, “Sir?” A slight nod from me and the bottle tilted downward. So simple. So sloshed. So quickly.

  “What’s your area of expertise?” I asked my scrawny-necked neighbor, Randall Bradshaw. His starched shirt collar was a size or two too large, leaving a dark gap in which his neck pivoted. I was well aware of (though confused by) his stated expertise, but one of the intriguing parts of my role here was to know nothing; I was pretty damn practiced at playing dumb. I had spent a lifetime at it.

  “I’m a diplomat,” Bradshaw responded.

  “Civil service, you mean? Government work?”

  He looked at me curiously and his fork sank to his small plate.

  “Embassies? That kind of diplomat?”

  “Oh, I see!” he said emphatically in a most British way. He smiled. He was amused with my American ignorance. I remained confused. “No, no, no,” said with all the grace of a teacher. “A diplomat. Diplomas. Scrolls.”

  “Oh, I see!” I echoed.

  It appeared he liked my teasing response. He slurped down some wine, peering over the glass at me.

  “Scrolls,” I said.

  “Exactly. I study scrolls pertaining to a forty-year period in the mid-eighteenth century.”

  “Scrolls?” I repeated, curious. I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around this concept. “Catacombs, that sort of thing?”

  “Libraries now—environmentally controlled rooms—but yes, originally they were stored by the church or local government. No telephones in the eighteenth century,” he enlightened me. “Communications were sent by messenger from sheriff to sheriff—the equivalent of a governor in your country.” There were those two words that everyone at Wadham seemed so eager to attach to me. A day wasn’t complete unless someone reminded you of where you had come from—that you were a visitor to England. Some salmon bubbled onto his lip and he missed it with his napkin. I felt tempted to help him—like a mother with an infant child. “What is interesting—to a scholar—about these scrolls is that each sheriff had his own identifying language and structural format. No matter what the length, given the first ten words of a communiqué, I can identify who sent it, therefore, approximately when it was sent, and, more often than not, the gist of the message—the intention or purpose—you see.”

 

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