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Chapter Twenty-One
O ye spires of Oxford! Domes and towers!
Gardens and groves! Your presence overpowers The soberness of reason
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ‘Oxford, May 30, 1820’
Their return to Oxford the next morning quickly spiralled into a comedy of errors, much of which could have been avoided if they hadn’t been too exhausted or hungry or irritated with each other to communicate. Their purses were running low, so they spent an hour arguing over whether it was prudent to borrow Mrs Clemens’s carriage to Paddington Station until they gave up and forked over the fare for cabs. But cabs in Hampstead were hard to come by on Sunday mornings, which meant they didn’t reach the station until ten minutes after the Oxford train had departed. The next train was fully booked, and the one after that was delayed by a cow that had wandered onto the tracks, which meant they would not arrive at Oxford until after midnight.
A whole day, wasted.
They whiled away the hours in London, migrating from coffeehouse to coffeehouse so as not to attract suspicion, growing ever more twitchy and paranoid from the absurd amounts of coffee and sweets they bought to justify keeping their tables. Every now and then one of them would bring up Professor Lovell, or Hermes, only to be shushed viciously by the others; they didn’t know who could be listening, and the whole of London felt full of hostile eavesdroppers. It felt bad to be shushed, but no one had the heart for lighter conversation, and so none of them were speaking to each other by the time they dragged their trunks onto the crowded late train.
They passed the ride in resentful silence. They were ten minutes out from Oxford Station when Letty suddenly sat up and began hyperventilating. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God—’ She was attracting looks. Letty grabbed at Ramy’s shoulder in some appeal for comfort, but Ramy, impatient, jerked his arm from her grasp. ‘Letty, shut up.’ That was cruel, but Robin sympathized. Letty was wearing on him as well; she’d spent most of the day in hysterics, and he was sick of it. All of their nerves were shot, he thought nastily, and Letty should just chin up and
keep it together like the rest of them.
Astounded, Letty fell silent.
At last, their train creaked into Oxford Station. Yawning and shivering, they lugged their trunks over bumpy cobblestones for the twenty minutes it took to walk back to the college – the girls would come to the porter’s lodge first to call a cab, they’d decided; it was too dark to walk so far up north alone. At last the austere stone face of University College emerged from the dark, and Robin felt a sharp pang of nostalgia at the sight of this magical and tainted place which, despite everything, still felt like home. ‘Hey there!’ It was the head porter, Billings, swinging a lantern before him. He looked them up and down and, upon recognition, cast them a broad smile. ‘Back from the Orient at last, are you?’ Robin wondered how they looked under the lamplight – panicked, ragged, and sweaty in yesterday’s clothes. Their exhaustion must have been obvious, for Billings’s expression changed to one of pity. ‘Oh, you poor dears.’ He turned and waved for them to follow. ‘Come with me.’ Fifteen minutes later they were seated around a table in the hall, huddled over cups of strong black tea while Billings fussed around in the kitchen.
They’d protested they didn’t want to put him out of the way, but he’d insisted on cooking them a proper fry-up. Soon he emerged with plates of sizzling eggs, sausages, potatoes, and toast. ‘And something to lift the spirits.’ Billings set four mugs down in front of them. ‘Just some brandy and water. You’re not the first Babblers I’ve seen back from abroad. That’s always done the trick.’ The smell of food reminded them they were ravenous. They fell on the spread like wolves, chewing in frantic silence as Billings sat watching them, amused.
‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about this exciting voyage, eh? Canton and Mauritius, was it? Did they feed you anything funny? See any local ceremonies?’ They glanced at each other, unsure of what to say. Letty began to cry. ‘Oh, come now.’ Billings nudged the mug of brandy closer to her. ‘It can’t have been that bad.’ Letty shook her head. She bit her lip, but a whining noise burst out. It was not a mere sniffle but a stormy, full-body cry. She clamped her hands over her face and sobbed heartily, shoulders quaking, incoherent words leaking through her fingers. ‘She was homesick,’ Victoire said lamely. ‘She was, ah, quite homesick.’ Billings reached out to pat Letty’s shoulder. ‘All’s well, child. You’re back home, you’re safe.’ He went out to wake the driver. Ten minutes later a cab pulled up to the hall, and the girls were off to their lodgings. Robin and Ramy dragged their trunks down to Magpie Lane and said their goodnights. Robin felt a fleeting anxiety when Ramy disappeared through the door into his room – he had grown used to Ramy’s company during all those nights on the voyage, and he was scared of being on his own for the first time in weeks, with no other voice to soften the dark.
But when he closed his own door behind him, he was surprised by how normal everything felt. His desk, bed, and bookshelves were exactly as he’d left them. Nothing had changed in his absence. The translation of the Shanhaijing he’d been working on for Professor Chakravarti still sat on his desk, half-finished in the middle of a sentence. The scout must have been in recently, because there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. As he sat down on his lumpy mattress and breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of old books and mildew, Robin felt that if he only lay back and closed his eyes, he could get up in the morning and head to class like nothing had ever happened.
He woke to the sight of Ramy looming above him. ‘Good God.’ He bolted upright, breathing hard. ‘Don’t do that.’ ‘You really should start locking your door.’ Ramy handed him a cup. ‘Now that we’re – you know. Tea?’ ‘Thanks.’ He took the cup in both hands and sipped. It was their favourite blend of Assam, dark and heady and strong. For just a blissful moment there,
sunlight streaming through the window and birds chirping softly outside, all that had transpired in Canton seemed like a terrible dream before cold, twisting memory sank in. He sighed. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘The girls are here,’ said Ramy. ‘Time to get up.’
‘Here?’ ‘In my sitting room. Come on.’ Robin washed his face and dressed. Across the hall, Victoire and Letty sat perched on Ramy’s sofa as Ramy passed around tea, a burlap sack of scones, and a small pot of clotted cream. ‘I assumed no one felt like going to hall, so that’s breakfast.’ ‘These are very good,’ Victoire said, looking surprised. ‘Where—’ ‘Vaults, just before they opened. They always have yesterday’s scones out for a fraction of the price.’ Ramy had no knife, so he scraped his scone directly against the cream. ‘Good, right?’ Robin sat down opposite the girls. ‘How’d you two sleep?’ ‘All well, considered,’ said Letty. ‘Feels strange to be back.’ ‘It’s too comfortable,’ Victoire agreed. ‘It feels like the world should be different now, but it’s . . . not.’ That was how Robin felt too. It seemed wrong to be back among his creature comforts, to sit on Ramy’s sofa and have their favourite tea with scones from their favourite café. Their situation did not feel commensurate to the stakes. The stakes, rather, seemed to demand that the world be on fire. ‘So, listen.’ Ramy took a seat beside Robin. ‘We can’t just wait around.
Every passing second is one that we’re not in prison, and so we’ve got to use them. We’ve got to find Hermes. Birdie, how do you contact Griffin?’ ‘I can’t,’ said Robin. ‘Griffin was very adamant about that. He knew how to find me, but I didn’t have any ways to reach him. That’s how it always worked.’ ‘Anthony was the same,’ Victoire said. ‘Although – he did show us several drop points, places where we left things for him. Suppose we went and left messages there—’ ‘How often does he check them, though?’ Letty asked. ‘Will he even check if he’s not expecting anything?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Victoire, frustrated. ‘But it’s our only option.’ ‘I do think they’ll be looking out for us,’ said Robin. ‘After what happened that night we were caught – I mean, there are too many loose ends,
and now we’re all back I assume they’ll want to be in touch.’ He could tell from their expressions that this was no great reassurance.
Hermes was finicky, unpredictable. Hermes might come knocking in the next hour, or they could go silent for six months. ‘How much time do we have, anyway?’ Ramy asked after a pause. ‘I mean, how long before they realize dear old Richard isn’t coming back?’ None of them could know for sure. Term was not due to start for another week, at which point it would be very suspicious that Professor Lovell had not returned to teach. But suppose the other professors had expected them all back earlier? ‘Well, who’s in regular contact with him?’ asked Letty. ‘We’ll have to tell some kind of story to the faculty, of course—’ ‘And there’s Mrs Piper,’ said Robin. ‘His housekeeper in Jericho – she’ll be wondering where he is, I’ve got to call on her as well.’ ‘Here’s an idea,’ said Victoire. ‘We could go to his office and look through his correspondence, see if there are any appointments he was due to keep – or even forge some replies if that buys us a little time.’ ‘To be clear,’ said Letty, ‘you think we ought to break into the office of the man whose murder we covered up and rifle through his things, all while hoping no one catches us?’ ‘The time to do it would be now,’ Victoire pointed out. ‘While no one knows we did it.’ ‘How do you know they don’t already?’ Letty’s voice rose in pitch. ‘How do you know we won’t be clapped in irons the moment we walk into the tower?’ ‘Holy God,’ Robin muttered. Suddenly it seemed absurd that they were having this conversation, that they were even in Oxford at all. ‘Why did we come back?’ ‘We should go to Calcutta,’ Ramy declared abruptly. ‘Come on, let’s escape to Liverpool, we can book a passage from there—’ Letty’s nose wrinkled. ‘Why Calcutta?’ ‘It’s safe there, I’ve got parents who can shield us, there’s space in the attic—’ ‘I’m not spending the rest of my life hiding in your parents’ attic!’ ‘It would only be temporary—’
‘Everyone calm down.’ Victoire so seldom raised her voice, it hushed them at once. ‘It’s like – like an assignment, you understand? We only need a plan. We only have to break this down into component parts, finish them, and we’ll be fine.’ She lifted two fingers. ‘Now, it seems there are two things we need to do. Task one: get in touch with the Hermes Society. Task two: accumulate as much information as we can so when we do reach Hermes, they’ll be able to do something with it.’ ‘You forgot task three,’ Letty said. ‘Don’t get caught.’ ‘Well, that goes without saying.’ ‘How exposed are we?’ asked Ramy. ‘I mean, if you think about it, we’re even safer here than we were on the ship. Bodies can’t talk, and he’s not going to wash up anywhere. Seems to me that if we all keep quiet, we’re fine, aren’t we?’ ‘But they’ll start asking questions,’ said Letty. ‘I mean, obviously, at some point, someone’s going to notice Professor Lovell’s not answering any letters.’ ‘So we keep telling them the same thing,’ said Victoire. ‘He’s holed up in his house, he’s grievously ill, which is why he’s not answering letters or taking visitors, and he told us to come back without him. That’s the whole story. Keep it simple, don’t embellish details. If we all give the same account, then no one will get suspicious. And if we come off as nervous, it’s because we’re concerned for our dear professor. Yes?’ No one challenged her. They were all hanging on her every word. The world had stopped spinning out of control; all that mattered was what Victoire said next.
She continued. ‘What I think, though, is that the more sitting around we do – that is, the more cautiously we behave – the more suspicious we look. We can’t hide away and keep out of sight. We’re Babel students. We’re busy.
We’re fourth years losing our minds from all the work we’ve been assigned.
We don’t have to pretend we’re not mad, because students here are always mad, but we’ve got to pretend we’re mad for the right reasons.’ Somehow, this made complete and utter sense.
Victoire pointed at Robin. ‘You get the housekeeper sorted, then go and get Professor Lovell’s correspondence. Ramy and I will go to Anthony’s drop points and leave as many encrypted messages as we can. Letty, you’ll go about your daily routine and give the impression that everything is
perfectly fine. If people ask you about Canton, start spreading the story about the professor’s illness. We’ll all meet back here tonight, and hope to God nothing goes wrong.’ She took a deep breath and looked around, nodding as if trying to convince herself. ‘We’re going to make it through this, all right?
We just can’t lose our heads.’ But this, Robin thought, was a foregone conclusion.
One by one they dispersed from Magpie Lane. Robin had hoped that Mrs Piper would not be at home in Jericho, that he could get away with simply leaving a message in the letterbox, but he’d barely knocked before she threw the door open with a wide smile. ‘Robin, dear!’ She hugged him tight. She smelled of warm bread. Robin’s sinuses stung, threatening tears. He broke away and rubbed at his nose, trying to pass it off as a sneeze. ‘You look thin.’ She patted his cheeks. ‘Didn’t they feed you in Canton?
Or had you lost your taste for Chinese food?’ ‘Canton was fine,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s the voyages where food’s scarce.’ ‘Shame on them. You’re only kids, still.’ She stepped back and glanced around. ‘Is the professor back too, then?’ ‘He won’t be back for a bit, actually.’ Robin’s voice wobbled. He cleared his throat and tried again. He’d never lied to Mrs Piper before, and it felt much worse than he’d expected. ‘He – well, he fell badly ill on the
voyage back.’ ‘My word, really?’ ‘And he didn’t feel up to the journey back to Oxford, and was worried about transmitting it besides, so he’s quarantining himself in Hampstead for now.’ ‘All on his own?’ Mrs Piper looked alarmed. ‘That fool, he should have written. I should head down tonight, Lord knows the man can’t even make himself tea—’ ‘Please don’t,’ Robin blurted. ‘Erm – I mean, what he’s got is very contagious. It spreads through the air in particles when he coughs or speaks.
We couldn’t even be in the same cabin with him on the ship. He’s trying to see as few people as possible. But he’s being taken care of. We had a doctor in to look at him—’
‘Which one? Smith? Hastings?’ He tried to remember the name of the doctor who’d come to treat him when he caught influenza as a child. ‘Erm – Hastings?’ ‘Good,’ said Mrs Piper. ‘I always thought Smith was a quack. I had this terrible fever several years back, and he diagnosed it as simple hysterics.
Hysterics! I couldn’t even keep broth down, and he thought I was making it all up.’ Robin took a steadying breath. ‘I’m sure Dr Hastings will take good care of him.’ ‘Oh, sure, he’ll be back here demanding his sultana scones by the weekend.’ Mrs Piper smiled broadly. It was clearly fake; it did not quite reach her eyes, but she seemed determined to cheer him up. ‘Well, I can look after you, at least. Can I fix you some lunch? ‘Oh, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I can’t stay, there’s – I’ve got to go and tell the other professors. They don’t know yet, you see.’ ‘You won’t even stay for tea?’ He wanted to. He wanted so badly to sit at her table, to listen to her rambling stories and feel, just for a fleeting moment, the warm comfort and safety of his childhood. But he knew he wouldn’t last five minutes, much less the time it would take to pour, steep, and sip a cup of Darjeeling. If he stayed, if he stepped inside that house, he would break down completely. ‘Robin?’ Mrs Piper examined his face, concerned. ‘Dear, you look so upset.’ ‘It’s just—’ Tears blurred his eyes; he could not hold them back. His voice cracked. ‘I’m just so scared.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ She wrapped her arms around him. Robin hugged her back, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. For the first time he realized he might never see her again – indeed, he hadn’t spared a second thought about what might happen to her when it became known Professor Lovell was dead. ‘Mrs Piper, I was wondering . . .’ He untangled himself and took a step back. He felt wretched with guilt. ‘Are you . . . have you got family or
something? Some other place to go?’ She looked confused. ‘How do you mean?’ ‘If Professor Lovell doesn’t make it,’ he said. ‘I’m just wondering – because if he doesn’t pull through, then you won’t have—’
‘Oh. Dear boy.’ Her eyes grew leaky. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got a niece and brother in Edinburgh – there’s no love lost there, but they’ll have to take me in if I come knocking. But it won’t come to that. Richard has caught his share of foreign diseases before. He’ll be back here for your monthly dinners in no time, and I’ll treat you both to a whole roasted goose when he is.’ She squeezed his shoulders. ‘You just focus on your studies, won’t you? Do good work, and don’t worry about the rest.’ He was never going to see her again. No matter how things fell out, this at least seemed certain. Robin fixed his eyes on her gentle smile, trying to memorize this moment. ‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Piper. Goodbye.’
He had to compose himself for a moment on the street before he could summon the nerve to walk into the tower.
The faculty offices were on the seventh floor. Robin waited in the stairwell until he was sure the hallway was empty before he darted forth and slid Professor Lovell’s key into the lock. The correspondence in the office was much the same as what he’d found in Hampstead: letters to Jardine, Matheson, Gützlaff, and others on war plans for the coming invasion. He shuffled some into a pile and stuffed them into his jacket. He didn’t have the faintest clue what Hermes might do with them, but some proof, he assumed, was better than none.
He’d just locked the door behind him when he heard voices from Professor Playfair’s office. The first belonged to a woman, demanding and loud. ‘He’s missed three consecutive payments, and I haven’t been in touch with him in months—’ ‘Richard is a very busy man,’ said Professor Playfair. ‘And he’s still overseas on the annual fourth years’ trip, which I’m sure he told you—’ ‘He did not,’ said the woman. ‘You know he’s terrible about such things, we never know where he’s going. He doesn’t write, doesn’t even telegraph, he sends nothing for the children. You know, they’re starting to forget they have a father.’ Heart pounding, Robin crept to the corner of the hallway, remaining just within earshot. The staircase was just a few feet behind him. If the door opened, he could flee to the sixth floor before anyone saw him. ‘That must be, ah, very difficult,’ Professor Playfair said awkwardly. ‘Though I must say this isn’t a subject on which Richard and I converse
frequently. You’d be better off taking it up directly with him—’ ‘When’s he expected back?’ ‘Next week. Though there’s been some trouble in Canton, I’ve heard, so it may be a few days earlier. But I truly don’t know, Mrs Lovell – I’ll send word when we hear anything, but for now we know as little as you do.’ The door opened. Robin tensed to flee, but morbid curiosity kept him bolted in place. He peeked out from around the corner. He wanted to see, to know for certain.
A tall, thin woman with grey-streaked hair stepped into the hallway. With her were two small children. The older one, a girl, looked about ten and had clearly been crying, though she concealed her sobs in one fist while she clenched her mother’s hand in the other. The younger child, a boy, was much smaller – perhaps only five or six. He tottered out into the hallway as Mrs Lovell said her goodbyes to Professor Playfair.
Robin’s breath caught in his throat. He found himself leaning further out into the hallway, unable to look away. The boy looked so much like himself, like Griffin. His eyes were the same light brown, his hair similarly dark, though it curled more than either of theirs.
The boy met his eyes. Then, to Robin’s horror, he opened his mouth and
uttered in a high, clear voice, ‘Papa.’ Robin turned and fled. ‘What was that?’ Mrs Lovell’s voice carried over towards the staircase. ‘Dick, what did you say?’ Professor Lovell’s son babbled something in response, but Robin was flying too quickly down the stairs to hear.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Ramy. ‘I didn’t know Professor Lovell even had a family.’ ‘I told you he had an estate in Yorkshire!’ ‘I thought you were making that up,’ said Ramy. ‘I’ve never seen him take a vacation once. He’s just not – not a family man. How’d he stay home long enough to conceive?’ ‘The issue is, they exist and they’re worried,’ said Robin. ‘He’s apparently been missing payments to his estate. And now Playfair knows something’s wrong.’
‘Suppose we paid them off?’ asked Victoire. ‘Forged his handwriting and sent the money ourselves, I mean. How much does it take to maintain a household for a month?’ ‘If it’s just the three of them?’ Letty thought for a moment. ‘Only about ten pounds.’ Victoire blanched. Ramy sighed and rubbed at his temples. Robin reached to pour himself a glass of brandy.
The mood that night was decidedly glum. Other than the stack of letters Robin had found in Professor Lovell’s office, the day had yielded nothing.
The Hermes Society had remained silent. Robin’s window was empty.
Victoire and Ramy had been to each of Anthony’s old drop points – a loose brick behind the Christ Church cathedral, a hidden bench in the Botanic Garden, an overturned and rarely used punt on the bank of the Cherwell – but none showed signs of recent visitation. They’d even walked back and forth in front of the Twisted Root for the better part of an hour, hoping Griffin might spot them lurking, but succeeded only in drawing looks from the patrons.
At least nothing disastrous had happened – no breakdowns, no ominous encounters with the Oxford police. Letty had begun hyperventilating again in the Buttery during lunch, or so Robin heard, but Victoire had slapped her on the back and pretended she’d merely choked on a grape. (Letty, Robin thought unkindly, was not helping the general feminist case that women were not nervous, pea-brained hysterics.) They were safe, perhaps, for now. Yet they could not help feeling like sitting ducks. The clock was running out on them; too many people were growing suspicious, and their luck would not hold forever. But where else could they go? If they ran, then the Hermes Society had no way of finding them. They were trapped by obligation. ‘Oh, hell,’ said Ramy. He was going through the stacks of correspondence he’d retrieved from their pidges, sorting out the meaningless pamphlets from everything important. ‘I forgot.’ ‘What?’ asked Letty. ‘The faculty party.’ Ramy waved a thick cream-coloured invitation card at them. ‘The damn faculty party, it’s this Friday.’ ‘Well of course we’re not going,’ said Robin. ‘We can’t not go,’ said Ramy. ‘It’s the faculty party.’
Every year just before the start of Hilary, the Royal Institute of Translation put on a garden party in the University College grounds for faculty, students, and graduate fellows. They’d been to three by now. They were long, unremarkable events; like at all Oxford functions, the food was barely passable and the speeches were long. What Robin couldn’t understand was why Ramy was making such a big deal of it. ‘So what?’ asked Victoire. ‘So everyone goes,’ said Ramy. ‘It’s mandatory. They all know we’re back by now – we ran into Professor Craft outside the Rad Cam this morning, and plenty of people saw Letty in the Buttery. We have to keep up appearances.’ Robin could not imagine anything more horrifying than eating hors d’oeuvres in the company of Babel faculty. ‘Are you mad?’ Victoire demanded. ‘Those things are endless; we’ll
never make it through.’ ‘It’s only a party,’ said Ramy. ‘Three courses? Wine? Speeches? Letty’s barely keeping it together as it is, and you want to plant her by Craft and Playfair and expect her to talk about what a lovely time she had in Canton for over three hours?’ ‘I’ll be all right,’ Letty said weakly, convincing no one. ‘They’ll start asking questions if we’re not there—’ ‘And they won’t ask questions when Letty vomits all over the centrepiece?’ ‘She can pretend she has food poisoning,’ said Ramy. ‘We can pretend she’s been sick since this morning, which explains why she’s all pale and clammy, and why she had a fit in the Buttery. But can you really argue that’s more suspicious than all four of us failing to show up at all?’ Robin glanced to Victoire, hoping she had a counter-argument. But she was looking to him, expecting the same. ‘The party buys time,’ Ramy said firmly. ‘If we can just manage not to seem like total lunatics, we buy ourselves a day. Or two. That’s it. More time. That’s the only factor that matters.’
Friday turned out to be an unseasonably hot day. It began with a typical January morning chill, but by midafternoon the sun had burned through the cloud cover and was shining in full force. They’d all overestimated the cold
when they got dressed, but once in the courtyard they could not easily remove their wool undershirts, which meant they had no choice but to sweat.
That year’s garden party was the most extravagant Babel had ever put on.
The department was swimming in coin after a visit by the Russian Archduke Alexander to the university the previous May; the archduke, who had been so impressed by the wit and skill of his spontaneous interpreters at the reception, had made Babel a gift of one thousand pounds for discretionary funding. The professors had put that to lavish, if ill-considered, use. A string quartet played lustily in the middle of the quadrangle, though everyone veered away from them because the noise made conversation impossible.
Half a dozen peacocks, reportedly imported from London Zoo, wandered around the green, harassing anyone dressed in bright colours. Three long, tented tables of food and drink occupied the centre of the green. The offerings included finger sandwiches, small pies, a grotesque variety of chocolates, and seven different flavours of ice creams.
Babel scholars milled around holding rapidly warming glasses of wine, making tepid and petty conversation. Like all departments at Oxford, the Translation Institute was rife with internal rivalries and jealousies over funding and appointments, a problem exacerbated by the fact that each regional specialist thought their language was more rich, more poetic, more literary, and more fertile for silver-working than others. Babel’s departmental prejudices were just as arbitrary as they were confusing. The * Romanticists enjoyed most of the literary prestige,though Arabic and Chinese were highly prized mostly by virtue of how foreign and different they were, while languages closer to home like Gaelic and Welsh had almost no respect at all. This made small talk very dangerous; it was very easy to give offence if one displayed either too much or too little enthusiasm about one’s research. Walking around in the midst of it all was Reverend Doctor Frederick Charles Plumptre, Master of the College, and it was understood at some point that each of them would have to shake his hand, pretend that they believed he remembered them when it was obvious he hadn’t a clue what their names were, and suffer a painfully banal conversation about where they were from and what they studied before he let them go.
All this for three unbearable hours, for no one could leave before the banquet was over. The seating charts were made; their absences would be
noticed. They had to stay until the sun had set, until all the toasts had been given, and until all the scholars present had had enough of pretending to enjoy socializing for a lifetime.
This is a disaster, Robin thought, glancing around. They would have been better off not showing up. None of them had their wits about them. He watched a graduate fellow ask Victoire a question three times before she finally registered his presence. Letty was standing in the corner, gulping down glass after glass of cold water as sweat dripped down her forehead.
Ramy was faring the best, holding court with a gaggle of first years regaling him with questions about his voyage, but as Robin walked past him, he heard Ramy burst out in such an abrupt, hysterical peal of laughter that he nearly flinched back with fright.
Robin felt dizzy as he looked out over the crowded lawn. This was madness, he thought, sheer madness that he should be standing here among the faculty, holding a wineglass, concealing the truth that he’d killed one of their number. He wandered towards the buffet tables and filled a small plate with hors d’oeuvres, just to have something to do, but the thought of putting any of the rapidly spoiling tarts in his mouth was nauseating. ‘Feeling all right?’ He jumped and turned. It was Professors De Vreese and Playfair. They stood on either side of him like prison guards. Robin blinked rapidly, trying to arrange his features into something like a neutral smile. ‘Professors. Sirs.’ ‘You’re sweating buckets.’ Professor Playfair scrutinized his face, looking concerned. ‘And you’ve got enormous shadows under your eyes, Swift. Have you been sleeping?’ ‘Time lag,’ Robin blurted. ‘We didn’t – erm, we didn’t adjust our sleeping schedules on the return voyage as well as we should have. And besides we’re exhausted with, erm, with preterm reading.’ To his astonishment, Professor Playfair nodded in sympathy. ‘Ah, well.
You know what they say. Student from studere, meaning “painstaking, dedicated application”. If you don’t feel like a nail struck constantly by a hammer, you’re doing it wrong.’ ‘Indeed,’ said Robin. His strategy, he’d decided, was to come off as so boring that they lost interest and wandered off. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ inquired Professor De Vreese.
‘It was—’ Robin cleared his throat. ‘It was more than we bargained for, we think. We’re all very glad to be back.’ ‘Don’t I know it. Those overseas affairs can be exhausting.’ Professor Playfair nodded to the plate in Robin’s hand. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found my inventions. Go on, have a bite.’ Robin, feeling pressured, bit into a tart. ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Professor Playfair watched him as he chewed. ‘Yes, it’s silver-enhanced. A fanciful little match-pair that I came up with on vacation in Rome. Pomodoro is a rather fanciful description for a tomato, you see – it literally means “apple of gold”. Now add the French intermediary, pomme d’amour, and you get a richness that the English doesn’t . . .’ Robin chewed, trying to look appreciative. All he could register was how slimy it was; how the salty juices bursting in his mouth made him think of blood and corpses. ‘You have pretoogjes,’ Professor De Vreese observed. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Pretoogjes.’ Professor De Vreese gestured at his face. ‘Fun eyes. A Dutch word. Twinkling eyes, shifting eyes. We use it to describe children who are up to no good.’ Robin had not the faintest idea what he was supposed to say in response to this. ‘I . . . how interesting.’ ‘I think I will go say hello to the Master now,’ said Professor De Vreese, as if Robin hadn’t spoken. ‘Welcome back, Swift. Enjoy the party.’ ‘So.’ Professor Playfair handed Robin a glass of claret. ‘Do you have any idea when Professor Lovell is back from London?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Robin took a sip, doing his best to collect himself before he answered. ‘You’ve probably heard he’s holed up with something he contracted in Canton. He looked in a bad state when we left him, I’m not sure if he’ll even be back for the term.’ ‘Interesting,’ said Professor Playfair. ‘It’s quite fortunate it didn’t spread to any of you.’ ‘Oh, well – we took precautions when he started feeling out of sorts.
Quarantine, face cloths, all of that – you know.’ ‘Come now, Mr Swift.’ Professor Playfair’s voice became stern. ‘I know he’s not ill. I’ve sent three messengers to London since you lot have been back, and they’ve all reported the Hampstead house is presently empty.’
‘Really?’ Robin’s ears began to buzz. What was he supposed to do now?
Was there any point in trying to maintain the lie? Should he just cut and run? ‘How very odd, that’s – I don’t know why he would . . .’ Professor Playfair took a step closer and bent his head conspiratorially towards Robin’s ear. ‘You know,’ he whispered, ‘our friends at Hermes would like very much to know where he is.’ Robin nearly spat out his claret. His throat caught the wine before he made a mess, but he then swallowed it up the wrong channel. Professor Playfair stood by calmly as he choked and gasped, spilling both his plate and
glass in the process.
‘Quite all right, Swift?’ Robin’s eyes watered. ‘What did you—’ ‘I’m with Hermes,’ Professor Playfair murmured pleasantly, eyes fixed on the string quartet. ‘Whatever you’re hiding, you’re safe telling me.’ Robin had no idea what to make of this. Certainly he felt no relief. Trust no one – Griffin had all but engraved this lesson in his bones. Professor Playfair could be easily lying – and this would be the simplest trick, too, if his goal was to coax Robin into spilling everything that he knew. Or Professor Playfair could be the ally, the saviour they’d been waiting for. He felt a pang of residual frustration. If only Griffin had ever told him more, if only Griffin hadn’t been so happy to leave him in the dark, cut off from others, and so utterly helpless.
He had no useful information to act on, only a gut instinct that something was badly wrong. ‘Thank the Lord,’ he said, mirroring Professor Playfair’s covert murmur. ‘So you know about Griffin’s Canton plot?’ ‘Of course,’ Professor Playfair said, just a bit too eagerly. ‘Did it work?’ Robin paused. He had to play this next part very carefully. He had to reel out just enough to keep Professor Playfair on the line, curious but not quite ready to pounce. And he needed time – at least enough time to gather the others and run.
Professor Playfair slung his arm around Robin’s shoulders, drawing him in close. ‘Why don’t you and I go and have a chat?’ ‘Not here.’ Robin’s eyes darted around the quad. Letty and Victoire were both staring at him over their shoulders. He blinked hard, glanced pointedly at the front exit, then back at them. ‘Not in front of the faculty, you never know who’s listening.’
‘Of course,’ said Professor Playfair. ‘The tunnels,’ said Robin, before Professor Playfair could suggest that they leave the party right then. ‘I’m meeting Griffin and the others tonight at the Taylorian tunnels at midnight, why don’t you come? I’ve got . . . I’ve got all those documents they’ve been waiting for.’ It worked. Professor Playfair let go of Robin’s shoulder and stepped away. ‘Very well.’ His eyes shone with glee; he looked one step away from rubbing his hands together like a villain on a stage. ‘Good work, Swift.’ Robin nodded, and only barely managed to keep a straight face until Professor Playfair moved on to chat with Professor Chakravarti across the green.
Then it took everything he had not to break into a run. He scanned the quad for Ramy, who was trapped in a conversation with Reverend Doctor Plumptre. Robin blinked frantically at him. Immediately Ramy spilled his wineglass all over his own front, exclaimed loudly in dismay, made his excuses, and beelined through the garden towards Robin. ‘Playfair knows,’ Robin told him. ‘What?’ Ramy glanced around. ‘Are you sure—’ ‘We have to go.’ To his relief, Robin saw that Victoire and Letty were already moving towards the front gate. He wanted to follow, but too many faculty stood between them; he and Ramy would have to go out the back, by
the kitchens. ‘Come on.’ ‘How—’ ‘Later.’ Robin hazarded a glimpse over his shoulder just before they left the garden. His stomach twisted – Playfair was saying something to Professor De Vreese, their heads bent close together. De Vreese glanced up and looked straight into Robin’s eyes. Robin looked away. ‘Just – come on.’ Victoire and Letty rushed towards them the moment they stepped outside. ‘What’s happened?’ Letty breathed. ‘Why—’ ‘Not here,’ Robin said. ‘Walk.’ They marched at a hasty pace down Kybald Street, then turned right onto Magpie Lane. ‘Playfair’s onto us,’ said Robin. ‘We’re done.’ ‘How do you know?’ Letty asked. ‘What did he say? Did you tell him?’
‘Of course not,’ Robin said. ‘But he pretended he was with Hermes, tried
to get me to confess everything—’ ‘How do you know he’s not?’ ‘Because I lied,’ said Robin. ‘And he fell for it. He hasn’t a clue what Hermes does, he was fishing for information.’ ‘Then what are we doing?’ Victoire asked suddenly. ‘Good God, where are we going?’ They had, Robin realized, been walking without purpose. They were headed now for High Street, but what would they do there? If Professor Playfair called for the police, they’d be spotted in seconds. They couldn’t go back into Number 4; they’d be trapped. But they had no money on their persons, and no means to pay the fare to anywhere else.
‘There you are.’ They all flinched backwards in fright.
Anthony Ribben stepped out onto the main road and looked them over, counting them with one finger like they were ducklings. ‘You’re all here?
Excellent. Come with me.’
