“Aren’t you staying overnight with your parents?”
“No. I must get back to Cambridge—got supervisions to give at nine tomorrow.”
“But I could have taken the train.”
“And I would have had two hours less of your company,” he said as he waved goodbye.
CHAPTER
41
The first time they slept together, in his uncomfortable single bed in his comfortable little room, Cathy knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Daniel. She just wished he wasn’t the son of Sir Charles Trumper.
She begged him not to tell his parents that they were seeing each other so regularly. She was determined to prove herself at Trumper’s, she explained, and didn’t want any favors because she was going out with the boss’s son.
When Daniel spotted the little cross that hung around Cathy’s neck she immediately told him its history.
After the silver sale, her coup over the man in the yellow tie and later her tipoff to the journalist from the Telegraph, she began to feel more confident about letting the Trumpers know she had fallen in love with their only child.
On the Monday following the silver sale, Becky invited Cathy to join the management board of the auction house, which up until then had consisted of only Simon, Peter Fellowes—the head of research—and Becky herself.
Becky also asked Cathy to prepare the catalogue for the autumn Impressionist sale and take on several other responsibilities, including overall supervision of the front counter. “Next stop, a place on the main board,” teased Simon.
She phoned Daniel to tell him the news later that morning.
“Does that mean we can at last stop fooling my parents?”
When Daniel’s father telephoned him some weeks later to say he and his mother wanted to come down to Cambridge, as they needed to discuss something “rather important” with him, Daniel invited them both to have tea in his rooms on the following Sunday, warning them he too had something “rather important” to tell them.
Daniel and Cathy spoke to each other on the telephone every day that week and she began to wonder if it might not be wise at least to warn Daniel’s parents that she would also be present when they came to tea. Daniel wouldn’t hear of it, claiming that it was not often he had the chance of stealing a march on his father and he had no intention of letting the moment pass without the full satisfaction of seeing their surprised faces.
“And I’ll let you into another secret,” said Daniel. “I’ve applied for a post of professor of mathematics at King’s College, London.”
“That’s some sacrifice you’re making, Dr. Trumper,” said Cathy, “because once you come to live in London I’m never going to be able to feed you the way they do at Trinity.”
“Good news. That can only mean fewer visits to my tailor.”
The tea that Daniel held in his rooms could not have been a happier occasion, Cathy felt, although at first Becky seemed on edge and, if anything, became even more anxious following an unexplained telephone call from someone called Mr. Baverstock.
Sir Charles’ delight at the news that she and Daniel planned to be married during the Easter vacation was so obviously genuine and Becky was positively overjoyed at the whole idea of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law. Charlie surprised Cathy when he suddenly changed the subject and inquired who had painted the watercolor that hung above Daniel’s desk.
“Cathy,” Daniel told him. “An artist in the family at last.”
“You can paint as well, young lady?” Charlie asked in disbelief.
“She certainly can,” said Daniel, looking towards the watercolor. “My engagement present,” he explained. “What’s more, it’s the only original Cathy has painted since she came to England, so it’s priceless.”
“Will you paint one for me?” asked Charlie, after he had studied the little watercolor more carefully.
“I’d be delighted to,” Cathy replied. “But where would you hang it? In the garage?”
After tea the four of them all walked along the Backs and Cathy was disappointed that Daniel’s parents seemed quite anxious to return to London and felt unable to join them for evening chapel.
When they had returned from evensong they made love in Daniel’s little bed and Cathy warned him that Easter might not be a moment too soon.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I think my period’s already a week overdue.”
Daniel was so overjoyed by the news he wanted to phone his parents immediately and share his excitement with them.
“Don’t be silly,” said Cathy. “Nothing’s confirmed yet. I only hope that your mother and father won’t be too appalled when they find out.”
“Appalled? They’re hardly in a position to be. They didn’t even get married until the week after I was born.”
“How do you know that?”
“Checked the date on my birth certificate in Somerset House against the date of their marriage certificate. Fairly simple really. It seems, to begin with, no one was willing to admit I belonged to anyone.”
That one statement convinced Cathy that she must finally clear up any possibility of her being related to Mrs. Trentham before they were married. Although Daniel had taken her mind off the problem of her parentage for over a year, she couldn’t face the Trumpers thinking at some later date that she had set out to deceive them or worse, was somehow related to the woman they loathed above all others. Now that Cathy had unwittingly discovered where Mrs. Trentham lived she resolved to write a letter to the lady just as soon as she was back in London.
She scribbled out a rough copy on Sunday evening and rose early the following morning to pen a final draft:
Cathy dropped the envelope in the postbox on the corner of Chelsea Terrace before going in to work. After years of hoping to find someone to whom she was related, Cathy found it ironic that she now wanted that same person to deny her.
The announcement of Cathy’s engagement to Daniel Trumper was on the court and social page of The Times the following morning. Everyone at Number 1 seemed delighted by the news. Simon toasted Cathy’s health with champagne during the lunch break and told everyone, “It’s a Trumper plot to be certain we don’t lose her to Sotheby’s or Christie’s.” Everyone clapped except Simon, who whispered in her ear, “And you’re exactly the right person to put us in the same league.” Funny how some people think of possibilities for you, Cathy thought, even before you consider them for yourself.
On Thursday morning Cathy picked up off the front doormat a purple envelope with her name written in spidery handwriting. She nervously opened the letter to find it contained two sheets of thick paper of the same color. The contents perplexed her, but at the same time brought her considerable relief.
Cathy was delighted to discover that Guy Trentham had died two years before she was born. That meant it was quite impossible for her to be related to the man who had caused her future parents-in-law so much distress. The MC must somehow have got into the hands of whoever her father was, she concluded; on balance she felt she ought, however reluctantly, to return the medal to Mrs. Trentham without delay.
After the revelations of Mrs. Trentham’s letter, Cathy was doubtful that she would ever be able to find out who her parents were, as she had no immediate plans to return to Australia now that Daniel was so much part of her future. In any case, she had begun to feel that further pursuit of her father had become somewhat pointless.
As Cathy had already told Daniel on the day they met that she had no idea who her parents were, she traveled down to Cambridge that Friday evening with a clear conscience. She was also relieved that her period had at last begun. As the train bumped over the points on its journey to the university city, Cathy could never remember feeling so happy. She fingered the little cross that hung around her neck, now hanging from a gold chain Daniel had given her on her birthday. She was sad to be wearing the memento for the last time: she had already made the decision to send the medal back to Mrs. Trentha
m following her weekend with Daniel.
The train drew into Cambridge Station only a few minutes after its scheduled time of arrival.
Cathy picked up her small suitcase and strolled out onto the pavement, expecting to find Daniel parked and waiting for her in his MG: he had never once been late since the day they had met. She was disappointed to find no sign of him or his car, and even more surprised when twenty minutes later he still hadn’t shown up. She walked back onto the station concourse and placed two pennies in the telephone box before dialing the number that went straight through to Daniel’s room. The ringing tone went on and on, but she didn’t need to press Button A because no one answered.
Puzzled by not being able to locate him, Cathy left the station once again and asked one of the drivers from the rank to take her to Trinity College.
When the taxi drove into New Court Cathy was even more bemused to discover Daniel’s MG was parked in its usual space. She paid the fare and walked across the court to the now familiar staircase.
Cathy felt the least she could do was tease Daniel for failing to pick her up. Was this to be the sort of treatment she could expect once they were married? Was she now on the same level as any undergraduate who turned up without his weekly essay? She climbed the worn stone steps up to his room and knocked quietly on the door in case he still had a pupil with him. As there was no answer after a second knock, she pushed open the heavy wooden door, having decided that she would just have to wait around until he returned.
Her scream must have been heard by every resident on staircase B.
The first undergraduate to arrive on the scene found the prostrate body of a young woman lying face down in the middle of the floor. The student fell to his knees, dropped the books he had been carrying by her side and proceeded to be sick all over her. He took a deep breath, turned round as quickly as he could and began to crawl back out of the study past an overturned chair. He was unable to look up again at the sight that had met him when he had first entered the room.
Dr. Trumper continued to swing gently from a beam in the center of the room.
CHARLIE
1950–1964
CHAPTER
42
I couldn’t sleep for three days. On the fourth morning, along with so many of Daniel’s friends, colleagues and undergraduates, I attended his funeral service at Trinity Chapel. I somehow survived that ordeal and the rest of the week, thanks not least to Daphne’s organizing everything so calmly and efficiently. Cathy was unable to attend the service as they were still detaining her for observation at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.
I stood next to Becky as the choir sang out “Fast Falls the Eventide.” My mind drifted as I tried to reconstruct the events of the past three days and make some sort of sense of them. After Daphne had told me that Daniel had taken his own life—whoever selected her to break the news understood the meaning of the word “compassion”—I immediately drove up to Cambridge, having begged her not to tell Becky anything until I knew more of what had actually happened myself. By the time I arrived at Trinity Great Court some two hours later, Daniel’s body had already been removed, and they had taken Cathy off to Addenbrooke’s, where she was not surprisingly still in a state of shock. The police inspector in charge of the case couldn’t have been more considerate. Later, I visited the morgue and identified the body, thanking God that at least Becky hadn’t experienced that ice-cold room as the last place she was alone with her son.
“Lord, with me abide…”
I told the police that I could think of no reason why Daniel should want to take his own life—that in fact he had just become engaged and I had never known him happier. The inspector then showed me the suicide note: a sheet of foolscap containing a single handwritten paragraph.
“They generally write one, you know,” he said.
I didn’t know.
I began to read Daniel’s neat academic hand:
I must have repeated those twenty-eight words to myself over a hundred times and still I couldn’t make any sense out of them. A week later the doctor confirmed in his report to the coroner that Cathy was not pregnant and had certainly not suffered a miscarriage. I returned to those words again and again. Was I missing some subtle inference, or was his final message something I could never hope to comprehend fully?
“When other helpers fail…”
A forensic expert later discovered some writing paper in the grate, but it had been burned to a cinder and the black, brittle remains yielded no clue. Then they showed me an envelope that the police believed the charred letter must have been sent in and asked if I could identify the writing. I studied the stiff, thin upright hand that had written the words “Dr. Daniel Trumper” in purple ink.
“No,” I lied. The letter had been hand-delivered, the detective told me, some time earlier that afternoon by a man with a brown moustache and a tweed coat. This was all the undergraduate who caught sight of him could remember, except that he seemed to know his way around.
I asked myself what that evil old lady could possibly have written to Daniel that would have caused him to take his own life; I felt sure the discovery that Guy Trentham was his father would not have been sufficient for such a drastic cause of action—especially as I knew that he and Mrs. Trentham had already met and come to an agreement some three years before.
The police found one other letter on Daniel’s desk. It was from the Provost of King’s College, London, formally offering him a chair in mathematics.
“And comforts flee…”
After I had left the mortuary I drove on to Addenbrooke’s Hospital, where they allowed me to spend some time at Cathy’s bedside. Although her eyes were open, they betrayed no recognition of me: for nearly an hour she simply stared blankly up at the ceiling while I stood there. When I realized there was nothing I could usefully do I left quietly. The senior psychiatrist, Dr. Stephen Atkins, came bustling out of his office and asked if I could spare him a moment.
The dapper little man in a beautifully tailored suit and large bow tie explained that Cathy was suffering from psychogenic amnesia, sometimes known as hysterical amnesia, and that it could be some time before he was able to assess what her rate of recovery might be. I thanked him and added that I would keep in constant touch. I then drove slowly back to London.
“Help of the helpless, O abide with me…”
Daphne was waiting for me in my office and made no comment about the lateness of the hour. I tried to thank her for such endless kindness, but explained that I had to be the one who broke the news to Becky. God knows how I carried out that responsibility without mentioning the purple envelope with its telltale handwriting, but I did. Had I told Becky the full story I think she would have gone round to Chester Square that night and killed the woman there and then with her bare hands—I might even have assisted her.
They buried him among his own kind. The college chaplain, who must have carried out this particular duty so many times in the past, stopped to compose himself on three separate occasions.
“In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me…”
Becky and I visited Addenbrooke’s together every day that week, but Dr. Atkins only confirmed that Cathy’s condition remained unchanged; she had not yet spoken. Nevertheless, just the thought of her lying there alone needing our love gave us something else to worry about other than ourselves.
When we arrived back in London late on Friday afternoon Arthur Selwyn was pacing up and down outside my office.
“Someone’s broken into Cathy’s flat, the lock’s been forced,” he said even before I had a chance to speak.
“But what could a thief possibly hope to find?”
“The police can’t fathom that out either. Nothing seems to have been disturbed.”
To the puzzle of what Mrs. Trentham could have written to Daniel I added the mystery of what she could possibly want that belonged to Cathy. After checking over the little room myself I was none the wiser.
Becky and I continued to
travel up and down to Cambridge every other day, and then midway through the third week Cathy finally spoke, haltingly to start with, then in bursts while grasping my hand. Then suddenly, without warning, she would go silent again. Sometimes she would rub her forefinger against her thumb just below her chin.
This puzzled even Dr. Atkins.
Dr. Atkins had since then, however, been able to hold extensive conversations with Cathy on several occasions and had even started playing word games to probe her memory. It was his opinion that she had blotted out all recollection of anything connected with Daniel Trumper or with her early life in Australia. It was not uncommon in such cases, he assured us, and even gave the particular state of mind a fine Greek name.
“Should I try and get in touch with her tutor at the University of Melbourne? Or even talk to the staff of the Melrose Hotel—and see if they can throw any light on the problem?”
“No,” he said, straightening his spotted bow tie. “Don’t push her too hard and be prepared for that part of her mind to take some considerable time to recover.”
I nodded my agreement.
“Back off” seemed to be Dr. Atkins’ favorite expression. “And never forget your wife will be suffering the same trauma.”
Seven weeks later they allowed us to take Cathy back to Eaton Square where Becky had prepared a room for her. I had already transferred all Cathy’s possessions from the little flat, still unsure if anything was missing following the break-in.
Becky had stored all Cathy’s clothes neatly away in the wardrobe and drawers while trying to make the room look as lived in as possible. Some time before, I had taken her watercolor of the Cam from above Daniel’s desk and rehung it on the staircase between the Courbet and the Sisley. Yet when Cathy first walked up those stairs on the way to her new room, she passed her own painting without the slightest sign of recognition.
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